


Knead

by laughingd0g



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Baker Draco Malfoy, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Banter, Bars and Pubs, Beer, Bisexuality, Coffee Shop Owner Draco Malfoy, Coffee Shops, Dirty Talk, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Ex-Auror Harry Potter, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Food Porn, Friendship, Getting Together, H/D Erised 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Magical Creatures, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Minor Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Muggle Life, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Pining, Portland Oregon, Post-Hogwarts, Quidditch, Rimming, Road Trips, Sexuality Discovery, Slice of Life, Switching, Unusual Career
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 83,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27635392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingd0g/pseuds/laughingd0g
Summary: This is not a story about Harry renovating Grimmauld Place.This is a story about coffee shops and brewpubs, about Ginny and Luna on a farm with creatures, about magical Oregon, coastal road trips, flying, friendship, and Draco Malfoy's lean arms.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 176
Kudos: 613
Collections: H/D Erised 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anemonen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anemonen/gifts).



> anemonen, I hope you enjoy this. Sending you my warmest wishes for a restful holiday season. 
> 
> Endless gratitude to my alpha-readers, beta-readers, and britpickers, without whom this story would, quite frankly, not exist: Lily ([triggerlil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/pseuds/triggerlil)), Rae ([tasteofshapes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofshapes/pseuds/tasteofshapes)), Flux ([fluxweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluxweed/pseuds/fluxweed)), J ([lastontheboat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastontheboat/pseuds/lastontheboat)), Mia ([zzledri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zzledri/)), and B ([BronwenAckeley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BronwenAckeley/pseuds/BronwenAckeley)). Additional thanks and recognition to Flux, who penned the wolfstar letters. You are beautiful souls.

Three days after he turned 30, Harry Potter resigned from the Aurors.

It happened like this: one sweaty day at the end of June, Head Auror Robards called him into the office. Harry had just finished his first cup of coffee and a raspberry Danish pastry, so he was fidgety with caffeine and sugar. His restlessness had nothing to do with the grim look on Robards’s face; it was Robards’s typical expression, although Harry wasn’t used to dealing with it first thing in the morning.

“Close the door, Potter,” Robards said. Then, when Harry was seated: “Davies has retired. I’ll be stepping into her position as Head of the DMLE.”

“Congratulations,” Harry said because he wasn’t sure what else to respond with.

Robards continued to glare at him. “Shacklebolt told me to offer you the position of Head Auror.”

“That’s very kind of him.”

It was clear from Robards’s tone and expression that he did not want Harry for the position, and to be honest, neither did Harry. Twelve years had not improved Harry’s attitude towards paperwork, but more importantly, it hadn’t improved his tolerance of office and Ministry politics. Once upon a time, he’d dreamed of becoming Head Auror and reforming the division, but twelve years of ignored recommendations for improvements, declined budget requests, and grinding overtime had cured him of his fantasy.

So he said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Robards grunted. “If that’s your choice, you can tell Shacklebolt yourself. He won’t hear it from me.”

So Harry wrote a memo to Shacklebolt politely declining the position. After only a moment’s thought, he recommended the name of Jaya Singh. She was two years younger than him but shrewd and ambitious and fiercely protective of her fellow Aurors.

Harry released the memo. He watched it fly away, then he stood in his cubicle looking at his crumb-strewn plate, the stacks of paperwork that fluctuated in height (but never by much), and the little notepad on which he’d written “potions test kits.”

All of a sudden, he wondered what he was doing there.

Until that moment, he’d been operating on autopilot, with the vague expectation that he would succeed Robards one day. But the expectation had never been his, had it? It had been everyone else’s.

He picked up the identification bracelet he’d been given at St Mungo’s the week before, after he’d been cursed—as if he’d needed one. Even if he hadn’t been Harry Potter, he’d have been known on sight by every hospital staff member. He was practically a resident by now, considering the number of times he’d been there; they could have given him his own bed on the Janus Thickey Ward.

Teddy had drawn something vaguely crude on the bracelet, the off-beat humor of the 12-year-old son of Tonks and Remus. Harry smiled to see it, and then frowned. That hospital visit had been the only time he’d seen Teddy in the last three months.

Of course, Teddy understood. All of his friends and family did. They always had a smile and a hug and hot meal for him, no matter how long he’d been away. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve that kind of love, especially when he was hardly around.

Well, he could hardly complain about not having enough time to see them when he was standing around doing nothing at work. He sat down and pulled a pile of papers towards him, determined to finish early enough that he could swing by Ron and Hermione’s after leaving the office.

As the hours passed, though, new files appeared in his inbox nearly as fast as he completed his current ones. He worked through lunch, only to be called for a consultation and return to find the paperwork had multiplied again.

He dropped into his desk chair. The hospital bracelet caught his eye again. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. An odd emotion lodged inside of him—one somewhere between despair and alarm—and then he took up his quill to write his second memo to Shacklebolt that day. He visited Robards again and delivered his official resignation in person, with a promise to see out his current case.

He closed the case one day after his birthday and had his things cleared out two days later.

Then the news of his resignation hit the _Prophet_ and the wireless, and Harry was glad his house was still under the Fidelius Charm.

***

Harry had no plans after that.

He thought he might have Teddy over for a week or two, but Andromeda informed him that the boy was visiting their family in France and wouldn’t return till shortly before the Hogwarts Express left for school.

Once, he went out for Auror pub night, and he somewhat enjoyed that, even if he was the brunt of most jokes that evening for his choice of Polyjuice disguise, but it felt strange to be a part of conversations about cases he wasn’t involved in. He bought Jaya a drink to celebrate her promotion to Head Auror and left well before the others.

Molly and Arthur were happy to have him over for lunch one day soon after, and he enjoyed the food and company, but when they asked what he planned to do next and he said, “Not sure yet,” Molly gave him such a look of pity that it haunted him into his sleep.

“Why should I know what I’m going to do next?” he asked Hermione and Ron when he saw them the next day. “It’s not—” He lowered his voice and glanced at Ron apologetically. “It’s not like I’ve had to touch any of my parents’ savings. I don’t exactly need to work.”

He felt uncomfortable mentioning his relative wealth in front of them, especially Ron, but Ron only shrugged and said, “That’s a good point.”

Hermione gave him a narrow-eyed look, then turned back to Harry. “It’s not about making money. I didn’t mean that you have to _work_ , Harry. But you’ll have to do _something_. You can’t very well sit around looking at the walls of Grimmauld Place all day.”

“And why not?”

She rolled her eyes in a very Hermione expression that had not changed in twenty years. “Because. For one thing, you’d go mad. You’re a very active person.”

Ron shrugged. “That’s also a good point.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said, and aimed a mild Stinging Hex at him.

“Oi! Blame the post owl, why don’t you.”

“I’ll renovate Grimmauld,” Harry said to Hermione.

“What?”

He smiled darkly. “I’ve been wanting to tear that place apart for years but never had the time.”

“Good luck with that one,” Ron muttered, and reached for a bread roll.

Hermione pursed her lips but said no more on the subject.

***

The next morning, Harry woke, put on an old t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, and stood in the sitting room. He regarded the peeling wallpaper, soot-darkened walls, and rainy oil landscapes and did not feel inspired to action. He needed to start _somewhere_ , though he didn’t want to start there, so he scrounged up a mostly-empty legal pad Hermione had left on a previous visit and took it to every hall and room in the house, making an inventory of the damage, curses, infestations, and sentient mold. 

The list grew long, and included an aggressive flock of books in the library, a cloud of noxious fumes under a Stasis Charm in the old potions lab, a nursery with walls sweating some kind of brown droplets, and a door that opened into solid darkness. Twelve years as an Auror, and a lifetime spent as friends with Hermione, had taught him the usefulness of approaching some things in an organized fashion.

Evening had fallen by the time he arrived in the attic, damp with sweat and hand tired from clutching the legal pad all day. He leaned in the doorway and looked in at the piles of junk. After being attacked by an almanac, nearly unleashing a deadly gas, and almost walking into a void, chucking a bunch of old stuff seemed…doable.

So, he would start here.

***

The next morning, Harry had his coffee and pastry before climbing to the attic. He spent that first day rearranging the mess into rough piles. On the second day, he chose the pile in the furthest corner to start with, picked the largest chest, and opened it.

The scent of pine wafted out. Someone in the Black family had loved Christmas. Harry almost fell into the crate while taking an inventory of its contents: snow globes filled with real snow, an angel that sang (but unfortunately didn’t want to stop), an Everlasting Tree thirty feet tall—all jumbled in a vast space created by an Undetectable Extension Charm and lit with floating green and silver candles.

He closed that chest and moved to the next. He dug through antique jewelry, notebooks filled with unintelligible scribbles, dried lizard feet, moth-eaten capes, yellowed lace bedding, half-melted silver cutlery, and a cameo locket with a tiny painting inside that screamed when he opened it. Startled, he dropped it—then snapped it shut.

He looked down at it all. Once, this had been someone else’s treasure.

Slowly, he worked his way through that pile, then the next. Some of the chests were locked with wards so old and fragile that they crumbled at a touch from Harry’s wand. A few of them were secured with curses that had tangled over the years. He set them aside and planned to talk to Bill about getting a Curse-Breaker to look at them. 

He Vanished objects that were crumbled beyond repair, even by magic, including a chest full of dolls that looked Muggle in origin. The doll heads collapsed at his touch and might have been cursed because he felt a sudden wave of euphoria and dizziness. Alarmed and reeling—nearly laughing at the madness of the situation (though that had to be from the effects of the curse)—he got rid of the lot with a wave of his wand.

He drowned under piles of old accounting scrolls that included a detailed listing of every purchase made to stock the larder, and Harry Vanished those, as well, because he didn’t think anyone needed one hundred scrolls of “beef tongues: 3; sheep intestines: 1; goat heads: 2,” no matter what Hermione might have said about “history.”

One chest was locked with a newer ward, and the magical signature felt familiar. Intrigued, and despite his lingering giddiness from the cursed dolls, he spent some time undoing it. It was a tricky little spell, but somehow, he felt like he knew how to pull it apart. At the last moment, he erected a hasty Shield Charm, but the ward gave way with no more than a gentle pop of air, and the lid of the chest creaked open.

Inside, he found letters. He unfolded one and smoothed it open. Something struck him as familiar about the handwriting, an echo of the feeling he’d got from the ward. _Dear PF_ the letter began. Harry jumped to the bottom. _Love, M_. He frowned and skimmed the contents. At the word _Prongs_ , he stopped. Checked the date. 1977.

Harry felt faint again. He reached a hand behind himself blindly, planted it against the floor, and sat. 

_PF,_

_I’m not sure whether I should thank you for your last letter or send you a bill for the three Calming Draughts I had to drink to recover from it. Who took the pictures? Was it Prongs? Should I be jealous?_

_Things here are the same as ever. Now Dad knows about us, I think he’s more excited to see you again than I am. I’m beginning to suspect he thought I would end up alone forever—I’m trying not to be insulted. When you get here, I’d appreciate it if you could mention all the people you had to fight off to win my heart. Just make up some names, he won’t know the difference._

_Merlin, I really can’t stop thinking about those pictures. If you were to send any more, I wouldn’t complain. Just make sure Prongs isn’t actually in shot, won’t you? It would dampen the mood a bit. (Don’t tell him I said that, he’ll take it as a challenge.)_

_Love,_

_M_

Hand shaking, Harry pulled out another. This one was written in 1980. His mouth went dry.

_PF,_

_You’re a monster. I can’t believe I love you. But yes, I’ll bring it over tonight._

_Dumbledore stormed into Prongs’s dining room in the middle of dinner yesterday, sent me away halfway through a slice of Lily’s excellent mushroom pie. Any ideas what that might be about? It didn’t seem like good news, whatever it was._

_I’m going to drop in on Wormtail later—he’s been acting awfully strange recently. I think the news about the McKinnons hit him hard. Remember when he followed Marlene around for months during sixth year? Perhaps he wasn’t quite as over that as we thought._

_I’ll be at yours for eight. Wear the red thing. You know the one._

_Love,_

_M_

Harry lowered the letter, heart pounding. A cold sweat had broken out on his brow. He felt a bit sick, not because he’d apparently stumbled across Sirius’s secret stash of love letters from Lupin—well, not because they were _love_ letters. Not like he thought there was anything wrong with that. But they were in Lupin’s handwriting, and they talked about _his parents_ , and they were all suddenly, achingly alive on the page. And— _Sirius_ and _Professor Lupin_. How had Harry not known? But what about Tonks? And Teddy. Merlin.

Hands shaking, Harry folded the letter and returned it to the chest. He cast his own ward over it, then went downstairs and had a glass of Firewhiskey.

***

Ron came over that night and brought a Chinese takeaway. Harry got the sense that Ron was checking in on him, and he wondered if Hermione had put him up to it. Or maybe Molly, judging from the treacle tart Ron pulled from his robe pocket and un-shrank for him. But Ron maintained a friendly cheerfulness, and Harry went along with it as they unpacked the chow mein and rice and chips and a mound of sweet and sour chicken.

They talked about Quidditch and George’s latest exploits in the Wheezes’ test lab and the audio drama Hermione and Molly had started listening to on the wireless, which Harry knew Ron used as an excuse to listen as well.

“How’s it going with the house?” Ron asked between bites of chicken.

Harry thought of the letters; he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about them. He shrugged. “Got through some stuff in the attic. Lot of old cursed junk up there. I need to talk to Bill.”

Ron made a face. “I can just imagine. You should. Bill’d probably love that. Old Black family heirlooms.” Ron shuddered. “It’s nice Sirius left you this place. But.”

Harry stabbed a piece of chicken. He snorted. “It’s something else.”

“That’s a euphemism. The attic, huh? What about the rest of it?”

Harry grimaced. He told Ron about how some of the weatherproofing charms had apparently failed years ago, how the walls and floor were crumbling with dry rot in places. The wallpaper needed to be pulled, the walls painted. Old Doxy nests needed to be cleared out of the draperies. A cursed window that always let in a cold wind, even on still, sunny days. Rugs that needed to be removed. Stains that looked suspiciously like blood.

Ron swore softly.

“So I’ve started in the attic. I figure I’ll…work my way down. One room at a time.”

Despite his casual tone, the thought of tackling the house made his chest squeeze.

“Blimey,” Ron said, staring up into the dark corners of the sitting room.

The letters crossed Harry’s mind again. It was nearly on the tip of his tongue: _Ron, did you know… ?_ But he dragged a chip through the sweet and sour sauce and popped it into his mouth.

“I might give it another few days,” he said. “Then I’ll call Bill.”

“You know,” Ron said casually, stabbing up a bit of chow mein. “Bill’s wrapped up in a project for the next couple of weeks. I’m sure he’ll be happy to come over after that.”

“Yeah. That’d be great.”

“And I’ll be done working on this prototype with George by then.” He made a face. “I’d better. Rotten thing’s already taking weeks longer than it should have. Point is, you don’t have to do this alone. You know?”

“Oh. Thanks. That’d be nice, actually.”

Ron nodded. “You’re family. I bet Dad would be happy to help, too. And Mum. She’s dying to have a go at your kitchen.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “She can have at it.”

“So it’s a plan, then, yeah? We’ll help you get this place sorted.”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” Harry said, uncertainly. “But you don’t have to.”

“Of course we don’t. But, listen. That’ll give you a few weeks to relax before the whole clan’s over here. And you know how Mum is. It’ll be a madhouse. You’ll almost wish for the quiet again.”

“Well…”

“And Ginny and Luna were asking after you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How are they?”

“Good. Milking goats. Picking tomatoes. Whatever else they get up to on a farm. But, you know. They’ve got a guest bedroom. You’ve got the time.”

Harry was feeling a bit dizzy. “Wait. Ron, are you saying—?”

“Go visit Ginny and Luna, yeah.”

“In Oregon.”

“Well, yeah. They’re not coming here. Ginny says it’s hell for them to take a holiday, need to find someone to house sit and feed all the animals.”

Ginny and Luna. Merlin. It’d been years since he’d seen them. He still remembered hugging them goodbye before they left for the US.

“I mean, Grimmauld’ll be waiting for you,” Ron said. “Been waiting decades already.”

Harry looked around the dim sitting room. He’d stoked the fire in the hearth, but its light was swallowed by the ever-present shadows. “I guess. Yeah.”

Harry thoughtfully scratched through the rest of his sweet and sour chicken, and mopped up the remaining sauce with a soggy chip. “What do you reckon the Chinese food is like there?”

Ron shrugged. “Same? Except it comes in those little paper boxes. They’re brilliant.”

***

That night, well after Ron had left, Harry lay staring up at the ceiling. He could hear a rhythmic knocking noise coming from the floor below, where the agitated books had never calmed down.

_Thock. Thock. Thock. Thock._

He cast a Silencing Charm, but the unnatural quiet made him uneasy, so he lifted the charm and listened to the knocking until he finally fell asleep.

***

The next day, Harry returned to the attic. He levitated all of the oldest chests with their failing wards against one wall, all of the sheet-covered portraits against another, and everything from Sirius’s time to the other side of the room. There were odds and ends that didn’t quite fit into any of those categories, and Harry left those piles in a haphazard group in the center of the space.

He stood for a while with Sirius’s chest of letters in his arms. He debated taking it downstairs and rifling through the rest of the letters. Not that he would read them. The thought discomfited him. They were too private for that, even if they did include mentions of his parents. But maybe they weren’t even all letters. And maybe he could ask Hermione about a spell to check for the presence of specific words. It wouldn’t be so invasive if he were just looking for mentions of Prongs and Lily. Sirius and Lupin wouldn’t have minded that, probably.

His heart raced, his palms were sweaty.

He took the chest downstairs and set it on the floor in the sitting room. Then he poured a glass of Firewhiskey.

Shadows moved across the ceiling. The fire popped. Gold accents on the chest gleamed. He stared at the box for a long time. From elsewhere in the house, a book banged against a wall.

He stood, chewed on his lip, and then threw a handful of Floo powder into the flames.

“Oh hey, Harry,” Hermione said.

“Hey, Hermione. Is Ron around?”

“He’s making dinner. Something I can tell him?”

“Yeah. I guess, or maybe you can help. I wanted to ask Ginny and Luna if they wouldn’t mind me visiting. And what do you know about booking a trans-Atlantic Portkey?”


	2. Chapter 2

It was the last Portkey that almost did Harry in.

Arriving, he just managed not to puke on the floor of the terminal. The Portkey across the Atlantic had been bad enough, then he’d had to make a second jump with a stomach weak from the first. He was grateful he’d followed Ron’s advice and hadn’t eaten during his hour-long layover in New Jersey. He hadn’t wanted to mark his first appearance on Oregon soil by offering up a half-digested burger and chips.

And in a little over a fortnight, he would have to go _back_.

He collected his bag from the baggage bin; a magical timestamp shimmered on its strap, showing its arrival time as an hour ago. On his first holiday via Portkey years ago, Harry hadn’t understood the reason for sending bags through their own Portkey and had insisted on keeping his with him for the trip, only for the bag to spin out of his hands upon arrival, nearly braining the arrival attendant and flinging shrunken clothing all over the terminal. He spent the next ten minutes Summoning tiny pants from potted trees and light fixtures.

Since then, he’d happily allowed his bag to be sent ahead.

“Welcome to Portland,” the smiling attendant said.

Harry checked the time. Two o’clock. That gave him a jolt, although of course Portland was eight hours behind London time. Ginny had told him not to bother sending a message unless he’d be delayed, so he hitched his bag onto his shoulder and followed the flow of people towards the exit and into the Portland airport.

He spotted some witches and wizards in traditional robes, as well as people wearing dress from other countries, though the majority wore Muggle clothing—some more appropriately than others. Although, when he stepped through the barrier into the general Muggle section of the airport, he had to reevaluate that thought. Quite a few of the people coming from the Muggle airplane terminals wore some surprising articles of clothing in even more surprising combinations.

He went with the foot traffic past a security checkpoint and through a series of doors that allowed him to pass through before swinging themselves shut behind him. And maybe it was just the surreal feeling he got from travel in general, but he felt like he was perhaps still in the wizarding section of the airport.

No, though. Apparently, he’d just spent so much of the last twenty years in the wizarding world—the Ministry, Grimmauld, magical districts and neighborhoods—that the Muggle world had moved on without him. He passed groups of people standing around, tapping at touchscreen computers. A security guard on some kind of upright scooter that glided by, silently.

After briefly losing himself on the wrong level of the airport, he emerged onto the pavement outside, where the rumble of automobiles reverberated.

The air felt different here, smelled different. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was. The stink of the petrol exhaust was unfamiliar, somehow, and the air had a different weight to it. The slivers of visible sky were an impossibly clear blue—and everything was so _big_. The structure of the airport, the street in front of him, the multistory car park beyond that.

He blinked around at the crowds of people and the line of cars driving slowly past. From the open window of one car, a number of people cheered and whistled at a man standing near Harry. The man waved back, picked up his suitcase, and jogged to the car before heaving the case through the open window and diving in after it. Several hands appeared to grab his clothing and pull him inside. The last Harry saw of the man was a pair of kicking feet through the open window, then they disappeared and the car slid away.

It reminded him so much of the Weasleys, Harry laughed.

“Hey!”

Harry recognized the voice, or he thought he did. There was something not quite familiar about it. He turned, still smiling. Ginny stood a dozen feet away, a beam of summer sun setting her hair on fire. She wore jeans and a white strappy top. The sight sent a jolt through him. She looked like a lost part of himself; she looked like a stranger.

His stomach twisted, and before he knew it, he was folding her into a hug. She smelled of something spicy, something floral. Her hair felt soft against his face. He didn’t realize how tense he’d been about this moment until it was here. As they disengaged, Ginny stepping back with a faint smile on her face, Harry realized that—although it was a comfort to see her again, and although hugging her was so familiar—she felt like a sister to him. 

“Where’s Luna?” he asked.

“At home. She had things to do, but she’s looking forward to seeing you. Merlin knows why.”

Harry might have made a retort to that, but he was arrested by the sound of her voice. He couldn’t put his finger on what was different about it.

“Let me get that for ya,” Ginny said, and before he could protest, had lifted his bag to her own shoulder. “Come on. I can’t officially park here.”

An American accent. That’s what. She’d picked up a bit of an American accent.

Ginny opened the door of a car parked along the pavement and then crossed over to the passenger—no, the driver’s—side.

Harry stopped short. “We’re getting into that?”

Ginny smirked at him over the top of the car, one eyebrow raised. “Scared, Potter?” she drawled.

He snorted. “You wish.”

She laughed.

Harry wouldn’t admit it, but he was nervous as they shut the doors, closing out the sounds of motors and voices, and pulled out into the traffic.

They rolled down an overpass, along a tree-lined road and onto a dual carriageway flanked by golden grass. That was another thing here: the roads were so much wider.

Ginny changed gears. Glanced at him. “I thought you’d enjoy the scenic route. Also, I didn’t fancy you puking on me if we Apparated.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. He wanted to tell her that a car ride was nearly as bad, though it wasn’t, really—except he did feel uneasy hurtling down this side of the street, not that he would admit it to Ginny.

They passed other cars, sped across a bridge that spanned a steel-grey river, then slid onto a stretch of mostly empty motorway. It felt like flying.

With the city behind them, the countryside spread out for miles on either side of the road, with mountains in the distance to either side, including one tall peak streaked with white.

“How was the Portkey?” Ginny asked.

“Just as bracing as ever.”

Ginny barked a laugh. She didn’t say much after that, and didn’t seem to expect him to, either, which was something he appreciated about her. She could be relentless when she wanted to be, but she could pick up on a person’s mood.

Ginny drove the way she flew: fast, smooth. He slipped into the exultant feeling. They passed golden fields, electrical posts, thick stands of conifers.

Harry felt a strange sense of disconnection and discomfort. Probably mostly due to the Portkey and the time difference. But it was also the way the landscape struck him as familiar and different at the same time. It was Ginny’s familiar presence beside him, but the fact that they were in a car, and she wasn’t his same Ginny. She’d changed over the years, little things. Just enough that it didn’t sit quite right in his stomach. He didn’t miss Grimmauld, per se, or even London. But he felt out of place. He missed the Burrow; he missed not feeling this sense of displacement.

“Hungry?” she asked.

Harry consulted with his stomach. “Maybe. A bit hard to tell through the acid burn.”

“Oh, gross.”

Then his window was sliding down, hot wind roaring in. The air in the car pulsed in his ears. Startled, he laughed. “What the hell, Gin?”

She cackled and jammed the button on her door again, and the window slid up. “If you’re going to puke, open your window and point it at the car behind us.”

“Oh, my god. What, are we thirteen again?”

She cackled once more, then they were encased in silence again except for the rumble of the wheels over the road.

She groped in the little box between them and tossed a package onto his lap. It crinkled as it landed.

“Granola bar?” he said, reading the label. “Thanks. I guess.”

“It’s your stomach.”

He looked down at the stomach in question. “Yeah, I guess it is. Unfortunately.” He gave it a pat, and decided that it probably deserved something in it, and peeled open the bar.

The road curved and wound its way into the hills, where trees pressed close, making a green tunnel. Ginny cracked the windows, and the smell of pine wafted in. They passed through a small town with a single petrol station and one short stretch of old buildings. “Vacuum Repair” said one shop front. “Stationery” said another.

Harry felt a creeping nervousness as they turned down a two-lane road flanked by thick forest, though he didn’t know what he had to be nervous about.

Ginny slowed the car and took them onto a narrow lane that led down, down, down and around a bend, where the trees cleared and revealed swathes of rolling golden hills, meandering fences, and a house surrounded by lush gardens.

“Wow,” he breathed. 

Ginny grinned. “Not bad, huh?”

They crunched down the gravel drive and pulled to a stop.

Harry hadn’t spent much time imagining what Ginny and Luna’s home would look like, really, so he shouldn’t have had any expectations—except he must have had something in mind, because the house surprised him. It wasn’t nearly as old as he’d expected. Not old at all, really—and nowhere near as patchily put-together as the Burrow. It had two stories and an attached garage, and was half-consumed by vines and flowers. A large tree leaned over the whole thing, shading it from the summer sun. 

Harry got out of the car and stretched out his spine. 

“I think Luna’s out back,” Ginny said, slamming her own door shut. “Do you want to go down and say hi? I’ll get your bag.”

“Oh, sure. Thanks.”

He took a narrow path around the side of the house and down a series of paved steps. Looking out over the rolling field, he wondered if he should send a Patronus, though he was exhausted from the trip and the heat of the sun through the car windows. Then he caught a glimpse of movement and saw that it was Luna.

He set off across the field. A warm wind passed over him, bringing smells of dry grass and something kind of sweet, kind of bitter.

“Hullo, Harry,” Luna said as he approached.

She stood near a tree with curling blackened leaves, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair pulled up in a plait. There was a smear of dirt over her neck. She smiled beatifically at him.

“Hey, Luna.”

“I’m glad Ginny picked you up all right. I would have come myself, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Overwhelm me?”

“Yes. With affection.”

Now that he was closer, Harry could see that her t-shirt had been cut at the bottom and tied with ribbons. She opened her arms and hugged him. She was slight, like a bird, and bony. She smelled of summer sun, patchouli, animal musk, and very faintly of vinegar. 

“Like this,” she said, pressed against him. “I thought it might be better to spread the hugs out, you see.”

Hugging her gave him an unexpected warm feeling and made his eyes burn inexplicably. For a long moment, he didn’t know what to say, just returned her embrace, neither of them moving.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he managed at last. “It’s good to see you.”

They parted, and she smiled up at him. “We’re so glad to have you here, Harry. It’s really nice that you finally have the time.”

“Yeah. It’s great,” he said, feeling a flush of guilt. He pushed his hands into his pockets. “What’s going on with your tree?” The black leaves did not look good.

“Oh. It’s sick. I haven’t figured out what’s afflicting it yet, but so far I suspect leaf blight or Erumpent curl.”

“Ah,” Harry said.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’ll be fine, I know. I haven’t given up.” She clasped his fingers in her own slender ones. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Not…exactly, no.”

“Come on, then. We’ll get you fed.”

A strange feeling washed over Harry as he walked towards the house with Luna, still lightly holding hands. He had that sensation again of being displaced, like things weren’t quite right. But the back garden reminded him distinctly of her old home in Ottery St Catchpole and the Burrow at once, so he felt like he was caught between times and places.

“We’ll eat in the shade. It’s nice there,” Luna said, and sent her hare Patronus galloping into the house. The Patronus reappeared seconds later, running laps around Ginny, who was carrying a tray, and then dissipated in a shower of silver sparks.

Luna smiled at Ginny. “You read my mind.” 

Ginny snorted, pecked her cheek, and set the tray on the table. They served themselves quiche and salad and sliced peaches.

“Ron tells me you’re planning on renovating the old bat cave,” Ginny said between bites.

Harry nearly choked on his quiche. “Bat cave?”

Ginny’s mouth twisted into a little smirk. “Come on. That place is _grim_.”

“That’s terrible, Gin.”

“I think it’s rather like a three-toed othelia den, myself. Grimmauld Place is dark, but it’s not smelly enough to be a bat cave.”

“Ah, thank you, Luna,” Harry said, while Ginny stifled her laughter against the back of her hand.

“Have you run into any othelias, Harry? It’s hard to tell. You can have them living in the walls for generations and not know it. Daddy has the contact for a witch who relocates them. I’ll get her name for you.” She added, “I think it’s good that you’re finally giving the house some attention.”

He ignored Ginny’s laughing expression. “Thank you, Luna. Me too.”

They finished lunch, then Luna offered to take him up to his room. As surprisingly normal as it looked on the outside, the air inside the house was charged with magic.

“Sometimes we have non-magical guests,” Luna said, as they passed doorways. “Though usually they’re magical. Like you. There’s quite a lot of rooms for the conferences we hold. I’ll give you a tour soon, but I thought for now you’d just like to settle in.”

“Thanks, Luna.” With the food in his stomach, and some time to recover from the Portkey trip, he felt a little better, but the number of doors dizzied him right now.

“Here we are,” Luna said, stopping in front of a slim door.

“It’s…a cupboard.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Almost all of the magical rooms are.” She opened the door to a tight space crammed with coats, cloaks, and jumpers.

“Er…”

Luna gave him a smile, pushed between one extravagant fur coat and an orange knit jumper, and disappeared inside. A moment later, her voice drifted out to him, muffled and as if from a distance: “Come on, Harry. It’s like Platform 9 & 3/4.”

It had been years since he’d boarded the train to Hogwarts. He remembered, quite clearly, how it felt to slam into the wall the time that the Hogwarts Express had already left.

Luna’s face poked back through the coats, and Harry gave a startled jump. She smiled at him, seeming to have not noticed it. “It’s all right, Harry. It’s only charmed to stop non-magicals.” She reached a hand out from between the wool and fur.

He took it cautiously and stepped through behind her.

“Oh,” he said, looking around.

Luna squeezed his fingers and continued to hold his hand. He didn’t mind; the contact was nice.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer a larger room or a smaller one, so Ginny suggested one of the medium-sized ones.”

“Ah,” he said.

Harry wondered what one of the larger ones looked like. He could imagine Ginny giggling downstairs at his reaction. He and Luna stood in a sitting area with a door to an en-suite. There was a rug and two upholstered chairs and a small coffee table rendered from a cut log in between them, next to a black iron stove. A blue kettle sat on the stove top. There was a large bed that could have fit three people with a quilt atop it. Beyond that: a more private sitting area with an escritoire, a wooden chair, and a bookshelf with a number of titles. There was even a small box that shimmered with preservation charms for food and drink. In short, it looked like its own cabin.

“It’s very nice,” Harry said, when he realized Luna was waiting for a response.

She beamed at him and drew him towards the en-suite, where she showed him the basin and the shower.

“You press here to empty the basin, and the water is sent to the flower beds.”

“Oh. That’s. Efficient.”

“Isn’t it though? We recycle as much as we can.”

She showed him the rest of the suite: the stove, the icebox, the lights. Harry nodded along.

Just as his eyes began to glaze, she said, “You’ll probably want to sleep now. It’s quite late in London. There’s food in the icebox if you should get hungry. And we’re just downstairs if you need some company.” She stepped closer and grasped his hand again. “It’s all right, Harry. The first day is always a little discomfiting, but I promise you’ll feel better after sleeping. I always do.”

He considered protesting, considered going downstairs to spend time with both of them. He was here to visit them, after all. But honestly, all he wanted was to curl up in the soft quiet of the room, and Luna was smiling her permission at him.

“Thanks, Luna,” he said.

A moment later, she’d disappeared through the cupboard door, leaving him alone.

Harry found his bag waiting on one of the armchairs near the stove. He unpacked his things, unshrank them, and placed them into the drawers and onto the empty shelves: shirts and trousers and trainers and toothbrush, as well as one book on visiting Oregon that had been written in 1977, gifted to him by Arthur. He poked through the cabinets in the en-suite and found a vial of Sleeping Draught. He silently blessed his friends for that.

The view outside the window showed the same white-streaked mountain peak he’d seen on the drive over. He realized he hadn’t asked Ginny the name of it. He’d just enjoyed looking at it, and the fact that it had a name hadn’t occurred to him.

The cupboard he’d come through looked like another part of the room, the coats all lined up on their bar. He hovered next to it for a moment, still half tempted to take Luna up on the offer of company. But he closed the door and sat down in one of the chairs by the stove.

He let the quiet and stillness of the room settle around him. Someone—he guessed Luna—had decorated the room with a string of colorful ribbons hung across the far corner of the room, fresh flowers and paper birds in a vase, and a painting of vines that curled around the far window. The quilt on the bed was made of old Quidditch uniforms and patches of denim and of floral printed fabric, and it looked like the sort of thing Molly would make.

And that’s when it sank in: this was Ginny and Luna’s home. And the strangeness of being far from home dissipated because their presence was here. Harry’s home had always been where his friends were.


	3. Chapter 3

The problem with Portland, Oregon, wasn’t the lack of coffeehouses, Harry thought. It was the overabundance of them.

He passed four in the first couple of minutes. Six, if he counted the hip little cafes that advertised espresso along with their fruit smoothies and bubble tea. Which was what he got for asking Ginny where he could find some coffee. Not that he should complain. He’d probably be needing a lot of it on this trip. Only, this meant he had to choose, which meant he had to be alert, which meant he needed caffeine.

He walked for a while, partly to put off deciding, partly out of curiosity.

Ginny had dropped him off in a part of the city dominated by shops and restaurants. He passed an ice cream shop advertising flavors like olive oil and avocado, a cinema made to look like an Indian palace, a bookseller, a shop selling taxidermy animal heads and crystals half as tall as himself, and a pet shop with rhinestone collars in its window.

It was ridiculous and vaguely magical (except the taxidermy heads did not blink) and crowded with pedestrians—a shock to the system after the peace of Ginny and Luna’s farm.

He had spent much of the day before wandering around its fields and forests. Luna had been right. He _had_ felt better after sleeping, though he woke way too early because of the time difference. After eating something from the little icebox, he’d discovered the window on the far side of the room was actually a sliding glass door that led onto a balcony. 

Despite the heat of the afternoon earlier, the night was cool, and he cast a light Warming Charm. The bright points of the stars were far more visible here than they were in London. He looked up at them and listened to the crickets. A train sounded its horn in the distance. It had been a while since he’d flown, but he had the urge to fly. He would have to ask Gin where she kept her brooms and see if he could borrow one.

A barking, whistling howl pierced the night, joined by another. A shiver went up Harry’s back. They weren’t wolf howls, but they didn’t sound like dogs, either. They went on and on—ghostly, wavering cries that sliced through the peace of the night and soared over the crickets. He wondered if he should wake Ginny and Luna, but he reckoned whatever lived in the woods, they knew about it.

Still, he stood on the balcony and listened to the chorus for as long as it went on, the hairs on his neck standing up. At last, it quieted, and he took another dose of Sleeping Draught and slept until six. He woke to the sound of a rooster crowing and wandered downstairs feeling puffy-eyed and over-rested. Neither Ginny nor Luna were around, so he rustled around till he found some butter to go with the bread on the counter, made a cup of tea, and went outside to watch the world wake up.

He walked around the sweetly-scented, overgrown herb garden that had Luna’s touch in its riot of barely contained growth and strange leaf shapes, and Ginny’s in the features that reminded him of the Burrow’s garden. Then he somehow ended up in the forest that neighbored the farm and walked under its cool humidity looking at ferns and trees and mushrooms, watching the flicker of birds in the canopy above, and considering the bright red berries that looked like raspberries—until his stomach began to tighten with hunger and he found his way back to the house in time for lunch, where Luna asked him how his walk had gone. He told her, and he also told her about the howling the night before. “Oh, you heard the coyotes,” she said. “They must have been welcoming you.”

Ginny did indeed have a broom he could borrow, and he spent the rest of the afternoon flying over the farm and over the same forest he’d walked through, and beyond, to a river that ran shimmering and cool. The air and the terrain still felt different from England’s, but in a pleasant and fresh way. He felt like a different person outside the dark walls of Grimmauld, with the bright open sky around him. With his feet dipped into the river, feeling the current of the water, he had to admit that Ron had been right: a break from the house was what he had needed.

He returned to the house in time to join Ginny in picking blackberries, which was surprisingly companionable, even though Ginny laughed at the scratches on his hands and smashed berries against his neck and arms when he wasn’t looking.

Harry got back by laughing at her when she nearly pushed her face into a spider’s web. They both ate nearly as many berries as they picked. And they were silent for a while, the same kind of companionable silence that had been between them in the car. Harry soaked in the sweet astringent smell of the blackberries and relished the feel of the sun and the shade. They mounted their brooms and flew back, and Luna made a compote with some of the berries and herbs from the garden, which they had on ice cream after dinner.

Harry had another night of interrupted sleep, but this time he had a broom with which to fly over the countryside by night. He relished the dark rush, the chill air streaming around him. He woke again around dawn, tired and desiring coffee. Ginny announced that she would be happy to Apparate him to Portland on her way to the college, handed him a non-magical credit card, and told him he could find coffee in the city. He said sure, and Ginny took him via Side-Along to an empty alley. Then he asked her where his best bet was for finding coffee, and she only snorted at him before Disapparating, which he found frustrating until he wandered onto the street and saw the number of coffeehouses.

Now, Harry let the foot traffic sweep him further down the street—past a bicycle shop with a unicycle in the front window—before he stopped, turned, and walked into a coffee shop at random.

He stood at the back of the queue with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders climbing up towards his ears, and stared at the menu, which seemed like it was only partially written in English. His fingers brushed the credit card in his pocket, and he wondered how he’d become so out of touch with Muggle society. And when had Ginny become so familiar with it?

“What can I get you?” the cashier said when he reached the front. It took a moment for the words to register in his caffeine-starved brain because of their unfamiliar cadence.

“Er,” Harry said, realizing this was the first time he’d spoken to anyone here besides his friends, and found himself inexplicably nervous. “What would I ask for if I just wanted a coffee, about that tall?” He pointed to the medium-sized cup on display.

The cashier stared at him a moment before breaking into a smile.

“Any flavor?”

“Uh, coffee flavor is fine?”

The smile widened. “Milk or dairy substitute?”

“Milk, please.”

“Any sweetener?”

“Sugar, I guess?”

“Anything else?”

“Just the coffee, please.”

“Cash or credit?”

“Uh. Credit?” He didn’t recognize the term.

“All right.” She held out her hand. When he didn’t move, she said, “Your card?” 

“What? Oh.” He looked at the credit card Ginny had handed to him and gave it to the cashier. She took it with a grin, and it occurred to him, belatedly, that she had asked him a lot of questions—especially when the coffee person handed him his cup and directed him to a table around the corner where he could choose from a dizzying array of sweeteners and creamers himself. He rooted around for the milk and sugar, added generous helpings of both, and walked back onto the street.

Cafe. Restaurant. Art gallery. Clothes. Comics. Coffee shop. A garden shop selling books. A metaphysical shop selling books. Restaurant. Doughnuts. Cafe. Puzzles and games. And books.

Harry was so accustomed to Diagon Alley. Even though it had grown over the years, there was still only one ice cream shop, one bookshop, one shop for school uniforms.

For lunch, he chose a place that served curry, hoping he would at least be familiar with the food here, but found that even this menu was foreign to him, so he’d ordered the special and was subjected to more smiles and odd looks from the staff. Feeling self-conscious, he ate his food at one of the little tables. He glanced in the wall-length mirror, wondering if he had something on his face, but he looked like he usually did, and he’d put his shirt on the right way around.

He patted a hand to his hair, though he doubted that was the source of the attention. He’d seen messier hair than his. And he’d placed a glamour on his scar that morning, not because he worried he’d be recognized in Muggle Portland but because the shape of the scar tended to draw its own kind of attention. As far as he could tell, the glamour was still in place.

Maybe it was nothing. His imagination. Probably, he was so used to being recognized everywhere he went that his mind picked up cues that weren’t there.

He could almost hear a voice in his head sneering that Harry had got used to his adoring fans. The voice sounded suspiciously like Draco Malfoy’s. And the irritating thing was, the voice was kind of right. Harry _had_ got used to people knowing who he was. He knew because he could feel a vague confusion, and a strange sense of deflation, when people met his gaze with polite friendliness that didn’t sharpen into surprise.

It was a _good_ thing not to be recognized. Just. Unfamiliar.

He walked a bit longer, past a set of train tracks and into a more industrial-looking neighborhood with equipment supply and repair shops, plus the odd restaurant.

And of course, a coffee shop.

It was nestled between a vacuum museum and a brick-faced hotel and was covered in a mural of flowers—a pop of color amid beige and grey. Racks of baked goods filled half of one of the huge street-facing windows. Next to them, a man stood at a workstation built so that passersby could see him working both hands into a ball of dough.

Harry stopped to watch from across the street. An occasional car passed by, briefly blocking Harry’s line of sight, but he didn’t pay them any attention. The sight of the man’s hands pushing into the dough—turning it, pressing it back together again—arrested him. Maybe it was the confident, sure movement. Maybe it was the way the man coolly ignored the two people staring from just the other side of the window. Maybe it was the total focus he directed onto the task. Harry had seen Molly make bread plenty of times; he’d even made bread, himself. But the baker behind the window was completely absorbed by his task in a way that made it something more.

Even from across the street, Harry could see the crease of concentration between the man’s eyes and the firm set of his mouth, slightly frowning. He had an uncommon shade of white-blond hair. Harry didn’t know why, but the sight of it sent a thrill through him.

As if sensing that thought, the man looked up, and Harry froze.

It could have been anyone, of course. He was across the street, and years separated Harry from the blond boy he remembered. But there was something about the way the man moved, the narrowness of his chin, that particular expression of concentration.

Harry’s heart sped up, and for a moment, their eyes met. Then Draco Malfoy’s gaze slid to one of the people watching next to the window, and he smiled, and turned to toss the ball of dough onto a pan.


	4. Chapter 4

That evening, Harry helped cook.

Harry liked cooking with Luna. She hummed as she worked, gave Harry gentle directions as he assisted her, and told him the story of each of the ingredients. It was a bit reminiscent of being in the kitchen with Molly, except Luna actually allowed him to do things and didn’t try to sit him down with a pot of tea and scones—which he never did mind, of course, but it was nice to feel useful. Also, Molly never told him about the romantic entanglements of the chicken who laid the blue eggs or the “peculiar quirks” of the one that laid the little pink ones (among other things, she preferred to lay her eggs in weird and unexpected places).

The window was open to the cool evening breeze, which pushed warm air out of the kitchen and brought in smells from the garden outside. Some kind of stringed instrument played on the wireless, accompanied by the clack of a bamboo wind chime and the laugh of a crow from outside.

“Oh, that looks good, Harry,” Luna said, glancing at the pepper slices on the cutting board. “The seeds can go here.”

Harry dutifully scraped them onto the pan Luna proffered, and—at her direction—spread them around to dry.

“Wonderful,” she said, and it was a little thing, but it made Harry feel good.

Ginny walked into the kitchen with a basket of fresh lettuce, herbs, and flowers.

“Thank you, love,” Luna said, leaning to peck Ginny on the cheek. Ginny returned the kiss. She dug several bright red tomatoes (and a purple one) from the bottom of the basket, along with a couple of vegetables Harry didn’t recognize, and set them into the bowl next to Harry to be cut. Then she took a yellow flower from atop the greens and tucked it into Luna’s hair. Luna reached up to touch it lightly with her fingers, met Ginny’s gaze, and traded a fond smile with her.

Harry looked away. He didn’t know why, only that it seemed like a private moment. Perhaps they’d forgotten he was there.

“Would you like one too, Harry?” Ginny said.

So, no. They hadn’t forgotten.

“Er.”

Before he could properly respond, Ginny came at him with the biggest yellow flower in the bunch and stuck it behind his ear. She grinned, gave her wand a wave, and Harry felt the prickling sensation of a Sticking Charm.

“That better not be permanent,” he said, touching the flower.

Ginny slapped his hand away. Luna said, “It’s not. Don’t worry. It looks very nice on you.” Her eyes laughed at him.

“Very manly,” Ginny said in a deep voice.

“I’ll strike fear into the hearts of all Dark wizards,” Harry intoned, because he couldn’t help but pick up on the playful energy.

They assembled the salad and brought it to the patio with the deviled eggs and the chilled corn soup, a soft white cheese rolled in chopped herbs and nuts, and a loaf of bread.

Harry took a slice of the bread and spread a generous helping of butter on it, slowly, thinking.

“Weirdest thing happened today,” he said into a lull in the conversation. “I saw a man who looked like Draco Malfoy making bread in the window of a coffee shop.”

“Oh. That probably was Draco, then,” Luna said. “Was he making rye sourdough? He usually makes the rye on Wednesdays.”

Harry paused. Ginny snickered into the back of her hand. He glanced between her and Luna. “Wait. Are you taking the piss?”

Ginny laughed harder, eyes squeezing shut. Luna looked back at him serenely. “Not at all. I doubt there’s another man who makes bread in a coffee shop with hair like his. It’s quite distinct, wouldn’t you say?”

Ginny was in full-on convulsions now, and Harry’s alarm and confusion rose. “There’s no way Draco Malfoy lives in Oregon and works in a coffee shop.”

At the sharp tone in his voice, Ginny sat up, laughter gone. She rubbed a tear from the corner of her eye. “Why not?”

“He doesn’t work in the coffee shop,” Luna said. “He owns it.”

“He owns it,” Harry said faintly. Then, “You’re really not kidding.”

“Not at all,” Luna said.

Ginny shoved a big bite of salad into her mouth.

“And you weren’t going to tell me?” Harry said.

Ginny and Luna didn’t look at each other, but there was a brief, charged moment of silence, a silent current that ran between them.

“Are you interested in visiting him?” Luna asked. “We didn’t think you’d want to see him.”

“Uh.”

Luna waited with clear, peaceful eyes. Ginny crunched through her bite of salad.

Harry gave himself a shake. He looked at his food and stabbed up a radish. “I reckon he’d rather not want to see me.”

“Oh, no. He’d be glad to see you. You did save his life.”

“What? Did he say that? Wait. You don’t _talk_ , do you?”

“Harry,” Ginny said. “Your soup’s getting cold.”

He frowned, set down the fork—with the radish still impaled on its tines—and spooned up some of the soup.

It only occurred to him a few minutes later that the soup was already chilled.

Ginny said, “So why exactly did you leave the Aurors, anyway?”

Still frowning, Harry told them that it didn’t feel right anymore, and he wanted to have time to do something else in his life. They asked him what “something else” he planned to do, and Harry told them he wasn’t sure.

It was different from telling Molly and Arthur or even Ron and Hermione. Luna looked thoughtful and offered some suggestions. (“Perhaps you could go into egg collecting. My Great Uncle Ovuphilius amassed quite a collection before a mother Occamy caught him on his way from the nest. He’d forgotten to cast a Disillusionment on the egg, you know. So it looked like it was floating. Occamies are very intelligent. And protective mothers.”) Ginny asked questions in between bites and poked fun at him. (“Fuck off to some tropical island. Make friends with a ball named Wilson.” Harry didn’t get it.)

Though neither of them seemed to expect him to know what to do next. It was refreshing, and a relief. Harry relaxed, and took their ribbing and their suggestions, and he even enjoyed the cold soup.

But he didn’t stop thinking about Malfoy.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Luna was waiting for him in the kitchen with her hair pulled into a series of plaits and tied beneath a scarf.

“Good morning, Harry. I thought you might like to see the farm today.”

“Oh,” said Harry, who hadn’t stopped thinking about Malfoy. “Sure.”

Over the course of the evening—and an early morning spent watching the dawn from the balcony—Harry had come to the conclusion that Ginny and Luna _had_ to have been taking the piss. Though he wouldn’t expect it from Luna, she _had_ lived with Ginny for more than half a decade. And there was no way he’d actually seen Draco Malfoy making bread in a coffee shop window in America.

He regarded Luna with his experienced Auror’s eye and tried to detect any hint of playfulness there, but she only smiled at him in her guileless way and said, “Would you like a turkey egg? I hardboiled several this morning, but there are some fresh eggs if you’d like an omelet.”

“Turkey eggs. That sounds unique, Luna.”

“Oh, they’re quite normal on farms with turkeys on them. They taste a bit like turkey, the same way duck eggs taste a bit like duck and chicken eggs taste a bit like chicken. Did you ever notice that?”

“Er, no. But I’ve only had chicken eggs, and they just taste like eggs to me. And doesn’t chicken taste like everything?”

“I used to think so, but it’s got quite a unique flavor, you know. You can tell when you compare it to other poultry, especially when it’s very fresh. Shall I make you an egg, then?”

“I think I’d rather just a chicken egg, if you happen to have any.”

“Oh, we’ve plenty of chickens. I’m sure we have eggs, too.”

Which is how Harry found himself groping for his breakfast in straw-filled boxes, behind bags of feed, and—in one instance—inside of an open cat carrier. (That was one of the little pink eggs.)

“I took what we had to the market yesterday,” Luna explained, as she brushed wood shavings and a stray feather from two of the eggs in her hand.

Harry frowned. “This one is still warm.”

“That’s all right. She must have just been sitting on it. But she won’t miss it for long. She’ll lay another, that’s all.”

Luna led him through the vegetable and herb gardens on the way back to the house, collecting basil, tomatoes, dill, and an onion as she went, so he had seen a fair amount of the farm by the time he settled in to eat a vegetable omelet and sourdough toast. 

“Oh, don’t worry. There’s lots more to show you,” Luna said.

After breakfast, she took him on the promised tour of the house, which involved looking into a lot of cupboards; Luna hadn’t been joking about the magical rooms. The non-magical rooms—which were behind normal-looking doors—held the same decorative touches as the magical ones, though they were more reasonably sized. Luna also showed him a room dedicated to knitting, a small reading room (“The libraries are in the basement”), a room with a TV, and a room filled with jars of dried herbs and blocks of beeswax, with beakers and bowls sitting about. The room smelled pungent but also a bit like honey. A little door at the end of the room led them to the shaded patio that they typically ate on. They exited through an archway dripping with green beans and wound their way through the vegetable garden.

“So what exactly do you do here?” Harry asked. “Besides the obvious: farming. You mentioned that Muggles sometimes stay.”

“Non-magicals,” Luna corrected easily. “We do. We teach restorative agriculture.”

“Sounds like there’s more to that. What’s restorative agriculture?”

“Agriculture that restores the land, magically and non-magically. You need to approach it from both angles to really heal the land, although we only teach the non-magical techniques to the non-magicals. ”

“Makes sense,” Harry murmured.

“This land was badly damaged. That’s why we chose it.”

Harry refrained from asking the obvious question: why they had chosen to move to damaged land. It didn’t look damaged now. It looked healthy and beautiful. Past the vegetable garden, short golden grass and dandelion puffs carpeted the gentle slope; beyond that, the tops of the trees swayed in the slight breeze.

Luna led him around the side of the house, past a greenhouse and down a sloping path into another garden, this one filled with flowers. Harry recognized foxglove and others that he didn’t have names for. A tiny castle made of little stones and glass beads sat among the blooms. 

“This is the herb garden,” Luna said, stepping lightly along the path. “It’s intended for the non-magical herbs, although we can’t control where the plants go. They have quite a mind of their own. See there? That’s a Biting Bell Pepper. When we hold a non-magical class, I’ll charm it so it doesn’t stick out; then, it will only seem as enchanting as all of the non-magical plants around it.”

They did look enchanting. The garden was a riot of different colors and shapes. The morning sun made the leaves glow a bright green. It looked magical enough to Harry.

They walked along a winding path hidden by the herbs; it revealed itself as they went. The smell of mint wafted up as they walked. Luna trailed her hand along the plants, lightly touching leaves and petals as she passed. She named some of them for Harry.

“Willow,” she said as they passed under the cool shade of a weeping tree. Then, “Elder,” as they passed another with clusters of shining black berries. They’d reached the bottom of the sloping garden, and the air was slightly cooler here, and moist.

“There’s a creek just there,” Luna said, pointing into the deeper shadows towards mossy grey rocks, although Harry couldn’t see water.

They passed into the shade of the trees. The path turned into wooden boards that echoed underfoot. The sound of running water grew until Harry was looking down at a little rushing creek.

“This is the dividing line,” Luna said. Something about the quality of her voice—hushed, almost a whisper—prevented him from asking what it divided, though it was clear as they left the creek behind that they had entered the forest.

Harry had not been to this part of the forest in his previous adventures. It looked similar, with bunches of ferns, and trees leaning this way and that, and felled trunks. But the atmosphere was different here, tense, like a bated breath. It reminded him of the Forbidden Forest, and the hairs on his arms stood up.

He caught the whiff of carrion and musk before he saw them. There was also a quality in the air, a pressure like that before a storm, an icy tendril in the summer morning.

“Thestrals,” he said, unable to help the shiver that traveled over his scalp.

“Yes,” Luna said.

Time had softened Harry’s memory of the Thestrals. The reality struck him with a hard chill. The five that stepped from the deeper recesses of the forest were huge, as black as the void, and starkly bony. Their white eyes were the only bright thing about them—glowing blanks.

Luna smiled and held open her hands. The largest Thestral stepped forward to press its hooked nose against her palms, leather wings rustling dryly. “There is one other reserve in the area, and their herd was already quite large. Thestrals don’t do well in large groups. They’re rather more like pack animals.”

Luna slung the bag she’d brought onto a large flat rock that looked nearly like a table. Harry spotted other clues that she visited the spot often: a wilted chain of wildflowers, a metal trough of water that bubbled gently, a single wooden chair, depressions in the ground where large bodies had lain recently. From the bag, she pulled several large hunks of meat and began distributing them to the Thestrals. They waited in a loose semicircle, watching intently but motionlessly until they were thrown a portion.

“So they needed a new reserve,” Harry guessed, once all of the Thestrals were eating. “And you started one.”

“Yes,” Luna said. She wiped her hands on her billowy trousers and picked a wayward lock of hair from her face. “We have other creatures, too. It usually happens that way. You start with one kind and then the others find you.”

“What else do you have?”

“Let me think. An Erumpent. A Thunderbird. A small herd of white bison.”

“And you manage all of this yourself? I mean, you and Ginny?”

“Oh, no. We usually have volunteers. They come and go. And Draco comes by.”

“Draco Malfoy?”

“Oh, do you know another Draco? I only know the one. It’s not a common name for a human, is it? He brews potions for us. We go through a lot of healing potions for the creatures and the people. And he helps with the protection charms, you know. He’s rather good at them.”

“Huh,” Harry said.

They walked deeper into the forest, skirting a drop-off from which drifted the sounds of running water. They emerged into a bright clearing where a number of trees had been felled. Some of the trees had been split and used to create a loose fence around the perimeter of the clearing. Others had been fashioned into tables and benches. The rest had been used to make raised garden beds. At the other side of the clearing stood a greenhouse.

The air around the clearing shimmered like a thin soap bubble. Harry recognized a Disillusionment Charm that would probably create the illusion of more forest for any Muggles—non-magicals—that came through the area. A slight pressure pushed against his skin as he passed through.

Luna showed him how to harvest a little herb called scullcap and handed him a basket from the stack beneath one of the tables. Harry worked his way down one row, while Luna went down another. Her voice drifted towards him, singing softly, sweetly, and a little off-key, but in a pleasant way.

“That’s enough, I think,” she said when they met up near the greenhouse at the far edge of the clearing. “We’re running low on Sleeping Draught.”

“Is Malfoy going to brew it?”

“He usually does.”

Harry looked down at his basket of herbs. “That’s nice of him.”

“Isn’t it?”

They made their way back through the woods. Harry caught the occasional whiff of carrion. Once, something large—several large somethings—crashed through the brush out of sight.

“The Thestrals,” Luna said, as if to reassure him.

A good deal of tension left his shoulders when they broke through the edge of the trees. Birds sang. The heavy atmosphere lifted.

“So,” Harry said as they climbed the hill towards the house. “Malfoy sells coffee. He bakes bread. And he brews potions.”

“Yes. He’s very talented.”

Harry had no response to that—at least none that was polite—so he didn’t say anything else till they got to the house, and Luna showed him how to hang the herbs to dry.

“I’ll take you to see the bison and the Erumpent later. This time of year, they’re able to feed themselves from the fields. The Thunderbird has an injured wing, but she manages well in the summer months, too. It’s nice to let them do their own thing. It helps their confidence. But I’ll check in on them once in the afternoon, just to make sure they’re all right.”

As she spoke, she led him across the slope to an area Harry recognized, though he couldn’t remember its significance until they stopped next to a tree with blackened, curling leaves. He realized this was the sick tree Luna had been tending to when he’d first arrived.

“What did you say was wrong with it?” 

“The land _was_ very damaged when we arrived. I suspect parts of it are still poisoned.”

“It looks like the tree has been here for years. How long has it been sick?”

“Not very long. I suspect the ley lines carried illness to the earth here. Or it might have been released by the Nibblers in the soil.”

Harry frowned. “It looks like it’s been cursed.” He’d seen enough of the symptoms in his line of work, including more than one case in which a witch or wizard had poisoned a Muggle’s food crop. This kind of crime fell under the jurisdiction of the regular magical patrol, but occasionally he’d been sent as an Auror liaison, usually when Robards was annoyed with him.

“It kind of does look like it’s been cursed, doesn’t it?” Luna said.

“I know an anti-jinx. Shall I try?”

“It never hurts to try.”

Harry attempted the anti-jinx he’d learned from the Curse-Breaker consultant they’d had on the crop cases. It had no effect.

Luna watched calmly. “It didn’t work for Draco, either.”

Harry lowered his arms. “Seriously? Malfoy?” _Again?_ he didn’t add.

“Do you know another Draco?” Luna asked, curiously.

“No. I just—” He stared at the sick tree. The realization hit him: “He’s around a lot.” Whereas, Harry hadn’t even known till now what Ginny and Luna got up to here in Oregon— _still_ didn’t quite know. A small struggling spark of anger tried to catch in his chest, but it quickly went out. Harry hadn’t known because he’d never asked. Never visited. And Draco Malfoy had. He didn’t know how he felt about that. He wanted to feel resentment, but instead felt guilty because Malfoy had apparently been helping Luna and Ginny—and Harry had not.

“It’s all right, Harry,” Luna said, placing a hand on his arm. He hadn’t noticed her stepping closer. “We’re glad to have you now. I think it’s time for lunch.”


	6. Chapter 6

_Knead_ , read the words on the window. _Tea. Coffee. Baked goods._

“Knead,” Harry scoffed under his breath, dismissing the memory of deft hands folding dough.

No one stood in the window today. The work counter was empty and clean, the trays stocked with round, golden loaves. A little further in, several staff members worked the service counter, but the reflection of trees and buildings on the glass obscured them from view.

He’d left the farm that morning without breakfast and without caffeine, then walked twenty minutes from the alley to…Knead. Which was stupid, in hindsight. But Harry never had been known for thinking a plan through. He was hungry, and he felt the vague beginnings of a headache, and that was why he finally pushed open the door of the coffee shop.

A little bell rang above. The rich smells of coffee, sugar, yeast, and chocolate greeted him. A coffee machine buzzed in the far corner.

Harry scanned the space. Sunlight lit the tall ceilings. The coffeehouse, though relatively small, had a vast bright feel to it. Maybe a converted warehouse.

A number of younger twenty-somethings sat with their laptops at the wooden tables, along with a few older people reading newspapers. The art on the walls depicted coffee beans in bright colors, flowers in shades of grey, and photographs of old brown cloth sacks and antique farm equipment. At the far end of the shop, a large open threshold led into a back area littered with big steel machines that he guessed were used to prepare food.

It was clean and appealing and very Muggle. A short queue had formed in front of the counter, where a child stood on tiptoe to peer into a glass case of pastries. Little bags of coffee lined the neighboring shelf.

Above the counter, a huge slate board on the wall listed the menu items in neat rows, surrounded by hand drawn roses in colored chalk.

All normal. All…unassuming.

Harry’s gaze moved to the woman behind the counter. She had purple-streaked hair and smiled as she handed a receipt to the current customer. Next to her, a man with cropped dark hair pushed buttons at the bank of coffee machines behind the counter.

Harry’s eyes kept moving. Looking. Though he felt silly. Of _course_ Luna and Ginny were having him on. Looking. Until his gaze found white-blond hair, and his heart gave a jolt of shock.

It couldn’t be Malfoy. The man looked nothing like him. His hair was just long enough to fall loosely around his face, framing angular features. He wore a _checkered shirt_ with sleeves rolled to the elbows and an _apron_ dusted with flour. He looked up. Smiled at the customer across the counter. Handed a coffee cup over.

And Harry glimpsed a sinuous stroke of black ink on pale skin.

“Excuse me,” said a brisk voice behind him.

“Oh.” Harry stepped inside so someone else could enter. The door drifted shut behind him. When he looked back towards the counter, Draco Malfoy had turned away.

His heart raced. His heart should not be racing. It was Malfoy. Just…Malfoy. The prat he’d beaten at Quidditch. Who had sneered and insulted his friends and thought too much of himself.

Who had pointed a wand at Dumbledore and let Death Eaters into the school.

Malfoy squeezed past the woman with the purple-streaked hair to scoop a pastry from the glass case with a pair of tongs. He served that to a customer along with a tall ceramic mug topped with whipped cream. Next was a cup of tea. A sandwich with a cone of chips. A cardboard tray of coffees to go.

“Are you in line?” asked a woman.

“No, no,” Harry said, and stepped aside.

When Harry glanced back, Malfoy was just reappearing from beneath the counter with a can in his hand. He shook it and applied a generous serving of whipped cream to a slice of jam tart.

Harry’s stomach gave a hungry squeeze. And he thought, _What the hell?_ and stepped into the queue.

He studied Malfoy as he waited. Same wiry energy. Pale eyes that flicked up to meet the gazes of his customers and colleagues. Mouth pursed with concentration, then breaking into a sudden smile that made Harry’s heart give another pound. Over the sounds of coffee-making, Harry could just make out the posh strains of his voice. He moved with certainty in the small space behind the counter, scooting around his colleagues and reaching for coffee, cups, baked goods.

No magic. Just hands and arms and agility.

He was surprised Malfoy hadn’t noticed him. He was surprised everyone in the shop wasn’t side-eying him. Harry could feel his own awareness of Malfoy like a solid force in the air. 

When Harry was two customers from the till, Malfoy turned away to work on a complicated drink order. In the mirror on the wall behind the counter, Harry could see Malfoy’s face—eyebrows drawn, ends of his mouth turned down in a frown. Concentrating.

One customer from the counter. Malfoy popped lids onto a line of drinks and handed them off to a tall man with a fleeting grin that was somewhere between friendly and smirking.

“Heather? Grab syrup from the back, would you?” Malfoy said, dumping coffee grounds from a machine.

“Sure thing,” said the woman with the purple-streaked hair. She slammed the change drawer into the till, ripped the receipt from it, and handed it to the customer in front of Harry, then slid around Malfoy to disappear into the back of the shop.

Malfoy stepped up to the till to take her place. And froze. His eyes widened a fraction, gaze skating over Harry. They were a clear grey, almost translucent (had they always been that exact shade?). Then he visibly relaxed, and a cool mask slipped into place.

“Potter,” he said. “Nice to see you. How was the trip?”

Malfoy’s voice was jarringly familiar—and just as jarringly different. He sounded posh—but not.

“Good,” Harry said, although this couldn’t be right. He couldn’t be facing a thirty-year-old Draco Malfoy over a Muggle till, exchanging bland pleasantries. Malfoy, with half an American accent. “You own a coffee shop,” he said, though there was a question in it. That wasn’t right, either. So he quirked his mouth and sniffed. “Never thought I’d live to see this day.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, and that was better. A little sense of reality reasserted itself.

“I have no doubt,” Malfoy said. He drummed his fingers on the till. “What would you like?”

Harry blinked and realized he hadn’t even looked at the menu. He glanced up. His eyes glazed at the number of choices.

“Coffee.”

Malfoy drummed his fingers again. “Ha ha.”

“What? I’m serious. Just—coffee. Cream. Sugar.” He held out the credit card.

Malfoy looked at the card as if he didn’t recognize the thing. Then, he accepted it, tapped at the till, and said, “That all?”

Those two words were so completely American, the crisp vowels Harry expected to hear lengthened, the sharp consonants softened, they sounded like someone else spoke them. He glanced at the board again. “Ham sandwich?”

Malfoy stared at him another moment. Then he tapped at the till again, ran the card, and handed it back to Harry. He took a little metal stand with a number 4 attached to the top and handed it to him, as well.

Harry didn’t know what else to say, so he pocketed his card and took the number to a corner table with a view of the entire shop, the street outside, and Malfoy working behind the counter.

The shock of seeing him as an adult continued to work through Harry. The overall subdued civility was the biggest surprise. Harry kept running their interaction through his mind, especially his unfailing politeness in front of his staff and customers. And here, now: Malfoy _serving_ people. Serving with a smile—albeit, sometimes it was a smirk, and sometimes with a face that looked almost like a question mark. He was as animated as ever, but he wasn’t insulting anyone, and he was taking orders as much as giving them, by the looks of it, and he wasn’t holding court, although many of the customers came away laughing at something he said.

“Brulee caramel, extra whip,” said the woman with the purple streaks, and set a mug in front of Harry. The mug was roughly the size of a small soup bowl, and there were lemon zest shavings on top of the whip as well as a narrow shortbread biscuit. “And a Black Forest sandwich.”

Harry looked at the mug topped with whipped cream. “I ordered a coffee.”

“It’s coffee. Is that not what you ordered?” She glanced at Malfoy and met his eye. They exchanged a complicated series of silent messages and hand gestures, ending with Malfoy making an emphatic jabbing motion with his finger. He met Harry’s gaze and raised his eyebrows in what might have been a challenge. The woman looked at Harry and raised her own eyebrows in question.

“I’ll keep it,” Harry said, and she shrugged, took the stand with its number 4, and left.

Harry regarded the mound of whipped cream. He didn’t know what Malfoy was up to, but he was about to find out. He set the shortbread biscuit aside. He lifted the mug and took a sniff: sweet cream and lemon. He tasted the whipped cream; it was thick—nearly as thick as icing—and sweet, with the tang of candied lemon zest. Tilting the mug a bit more, he got a taste of the coffee underneath: sweet, smooth, caramel-flavored. He frowned because it reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite place his finger on it.

The ham was thickly sliced, dry, and smoky-flavored. The bread was a buttery croissant. There was a pickle spear on the side, along with what turned out to be a pickled carrot.

Leave it to Malfoy to make a sandwich fancy.

Harry ate the sandwich and the pickle spear and even the pickled carrot—which was weird—and drank the…coffee. He watched the queue form up and empty again.

Once, Malfoy glanced up to find Harry watching. His expression turned unreadable. Then he scrunched his nose and turned away, grabbing a loaf from one of the racks behind the counter.

It was so weird watching Malfoy. Harry’s feelings about him had been complicated since the last battle. He was still used to looking at him and experiencing a sense of distaste, a need to squash him. Although, the last time he’d seen Malfoy had been at the trials just after the war, and at the time, his emotions had been primarily of pity; Malfoy had looked so worn. 

Harry didn’t know what feelings to replace them with, what should go in their place. The man behind the counter was neither the boy Harry had loathed in school, nor the beat-down, terrified young man he remembered from the courtroom. Harry recognized some of the boy in him, though—in the quick Seeker’s movements, the occasional smirk and the more frequent genuine smile.

Malfoy had grown up. Malfoy had grown up, and he owned a coffee shop, and he lived in Oregon. And apparently he knew Luna and Ginny and spent time with them, and they had told him Harry was visiting them.

And before Harry knew it—before he could shake out of his thoughts and leave Malfoy to his rhythm in the shop—Malfoy looked up and met his eye again. He didn’t make a face this time. He turned to the woman, said something, and she nodded. He came around the counter and approached Harry’s table.

Malfoy still had on the flour-smeared apron.

Harry wondered if he’d been making bread again, if he had made the croissant Harry had just eaten. He had a confident step, just a hint of a swagger, but that might have been put on for Harry’s benefit.

“Did you enjoy?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, because he had, and what was the point of pretending he hadn’t? Even if it was annoying to see the smirk that appeared on Malfoy’s face. Only—it wasn’t annoying, really. Harry liked the smirk. It made Malfoy look like the boy he remembered, which was something of a relief—but also, confusing. It made Harry’s gut flip. 

To cover up his bewilderment, Harry pointed at the mug. “What the hell was that?”

“Coffee,” Malfoy said, sliding a chair out and folding into it gracefully, which irritated Harry. All of that boyhood haughtiness had translated into an easy competence.

“That was not coffee. That was liquid sugar.”

“Are you trying to tell me what’s in the drink I mixed myself?”

“I bet you made the sandwich, too.”

“Did you like it?”

“It was on a croissant.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you couldn’t handle a sandwich if it’s not on stale white bread.”

“Funny. Did you soak that carrot in vinegar, too?”

“It’s fermented, actually. Luna jars them. You should ask her about them.”

Harry frowned.

“What? Didn’t she tell you? She brings us our dill pickles and some other things. Eggs. Goat cheese.”

Harry’s frown deepened. 

Both corners of Malfoy’s mouth quirked back in an expression that wasn’t exactly a smile. “Finally visiting Oregon, are you?” He draped an arm over his knee.

“Yeah. I thought I’d come see Ginny and Luna on their farm. How long have you been here?”

“In Oregon? Five years.”

Harry scrambled to do the math. Luna and Ginny would have come six years ago now; he remembered because he had just made Senior Auror position around the same time. So, Malfoy had come after them. 

“And how long have you had a coffee shop?” Harry asked.

“Four years.”

Four years. Malfoy had owned a coffee shop in Oregon for four years, and had likely been friends with Luna and Ginny for that long, and Harry hadn’t known. He had been absorbed in his own life. Suddenly, he felt like life and the world had passed him by while he was stuck in the Auror office on repeat, day in and day out. He couldn’t even remember anything that stood out about the last four years. It didn’t feel like that much time had passed.

Malfoy rapped on the tabletop. “Well. Nice catching up, Potter. Enjoy your stay.”

Harry opened his mouth, but before he could think of anything to say, Malfoy had returned to his place behind the counter and slipped back into the flow of preparing food and drinks as if he’d never left. 

Harry looked at the last little piece of carrot on his plate. He picked it up and popped it into his mouth. It was sour, and had kind of a complicated flavor, now that he thought about it. 

Malfoy did not look his way again. Harry could have been just another customer. 

He left, still frowning.


	7. Chapter 7

“That’s…a lot of brooms.”

Ginny smirked at him.

He hadn’t been inside the shed before. When he’d asked for a broom, Ginny had brought it to him, and he’d assumed she had a couple of spares. From the look of the shed from the outside, he’d expected a few brooms for guests, some decommissioned older models, and some odds and ends for the farm. He hadn’t expected a space the size of a small house, with benches for sitting and lockers—and racks and racks of brooms.

“Godric. Ginny, do you house a Quidditch team here?”

“We’ve hosted some,” she said over her shoulder, already disappearing inside. 

Harry was still waking up. He’d thought he would have another laid back morning with Luna, making breakfast and meandering around the farm. Instead, Ginny had appeared at his door while he was still on the edge of sleep and waking, too cheerful for six in the morning.

“Quidditch camp today! I need your help. I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes if you want tea.”

She reminded him sharply of Molly in that moment. He rolled over and buried his head under his pillow. This was supposed to be a holiday. A minute later, he heaved himself up. It was for the best, anyway. He’d been lying there thinking about Malfoy. Malfoy and his coffee shop and his friendship with Luna and Ginny. He replayed the conversation in his head. It had remained unexpectedly polite, and was unsettling for that.

He stood under the hot spray of the shower for a minute, then pulled on clothes and arrived downstairs in time for Ginny to deliver a cup of tea into his hands with a twist of a smile.

“Almost missed it,” she said. “Come on.”

And that was how he’d found himself following after her across the crunchy grass to the broomshed, the air still cool, the sun slanting at a sharp angle and glinting off the tops of longer grass.

Now, Harry drank his tea and helped Ginny sort through the brooms, casting renewed protection charms on them—charms to stabilize the steering and cushion the seats and to cause the brooms to follow close to their riders should someone become unseated. Harry hadn’t encountered some of the charms before, but Ginny showed him, and he picked them up quickly.

Ginny’s mischievous edge and confidence translated into a firm clarity when teaching. She explained things well but expected him to keep up, though when he asked her to repeat an incantation or a wand gesture, she did so patiently.

Soon, he was working along one side of the shed, tackling his own wall of brooms.

“You’re a good teacher,” Harry said.

Ginny glanced over at him from where she held a broom in one hand. She lifted her wand tip from it and replaced it on its hook. “I learned from the best,” she said, and he was about ready to ask if she meant a specific Hogwarts professor when she added, “I’m surprised you didn’t go into teaching, yourself.”

“What?” He finished the wand movement of the cushioning charm too sharply, and the charm landed on a wooden box instead and Transfigured it into a big fluffy pillow.

Ginny gave a loose shrug of her shoulders. “Just an observation.”

Harry was nonplussed, and Ginny didn’t offer anything more on the subject. “So what made you, you know, interested in teaching? I thought you enjoyed professional Quidditch.”

“I did,” she said. “For the most part. I liked my team. I liked flying. I liked playing. But I spent a lot of time away during training, which was a lot of the year. And when we weren’t training, we were traveling for games. The Portkey lag sucked balls. I missed home. I missed Luna.”

“Oh.” Having fixed the botched cushioning charm and recast it—on the correct object, this time—he replaced the broom on its hook. “That makes sense. So you decided to teach, then. So you’d be closer to home?”

“For the most part. I also got tired of competing all of the time. It’s kind of nice to lord it over a group of students. The magical community college had a position open, so I thought I’d try it. I liked it.”

“And what if the college hadn’t been looking?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking of working full-time with Luna on the farm. We never have enough help. But we’re lucky to break even with farm costs and revenue. For anything else, we need another source of income. I was originally thinking of maybe opening a training camp here permanently. Hence the shed. But the college was looking for someone, and a permanent training camp would have meant a lot of people and a lot of noise for most of the year.”

Harry tended to agree. He liked the quiet of the farm. He couldn’t imagine it with a near-constant presence of high energy Quidditch players. The shouting, the movement of brooms and balls puncturing the clean quiet.

“But you decided to hold day camps during the summer,” Harry said.

“Yes…” Ginny said, drawing out the word.

He didn’t understand the change in tone. Decided to change tacks. “And Luna seems to be doing a lot of things. Taking care of creatures. Gardening. Making pickles for Malfoy’s coffee shop. She mentions him a lot, Malfoy. It sounds like he helps out a lot.”

He had pulled down another broom and started casting the battery of charms, so it took a moment for him to mark the silence in the shed. He looked up at Ginny at the same moment she slammed a broom down.

“Harry James Potter. Are you _interrogating_ me?”

“What? No!”

She jabbed the tip of the broom handle at him. “Why are you suddenly asking questions?”

“What? What do you mean?”

She put her fists on her hips and stared at him.

“What? I haven’t— I haven’t seen you in six years, and I figured—I don’t even know what you’ve been up to.”

“No, you don’t,” she said sharply, then added, “But that’s okay. Don’t strain yourself catching up on six years of life in the broomshed. Luna forgives you, and I really don’t give a shit. And if you’re jealous of Malfoy, you need to get over it.”

Stricken, he said, “And what if I want to know for myself?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow very high. “Do you?”

“Of _course_ I do,” he said, a little too vehemently.

She regarded him for a long moment.

“I’ve been an arse,” Harry said. “I should know what my friends are up to.”

Abruptly, Ginny inspected the broom in her hand. She cast the charms on it. Her spellcasting was quick, her movements tight and her words barely a whisper. She had a look of utter concentration on her face. It was so different from Luna’s casting, which was airy and light, with broad, soft wand movements and lyrical incantations. They suited each other, he realized.

He finished his own broom, and with one more he had finished the row. He looked back at all of the brooms, which gave off a faint aura of fresh magic, and was surprised at how fast he’d gone through them.

“Luna loves it.”

He looked at Ginny. She gave him a tight little smile, though not unfriendly. Her eyes were soft.

“Luna really loves it here, and I do, too. She’s not the only one who takes care of the creatures and mucks around and cans veg.”

“Oh.”

“All done there? Good. The campers will be here in an hour. We’ll reinforce the Disillusionment Charms over the field. We’re in the middle of nowhere, but sometimes planes fly over.”

Harry helped her reorganize the brooms so that the slower ones meant for beginners were closer to the front of the shed.

“It’s not a contest, you know.”

“What?”

“Between you and Malfoy.” She glanced at him. “You dork. Grab that and let’s get going.”

***

Harry had forgotten how much he enjoyed Quidditch practice. He hadn’t known what he would think about the quiet of the farm being disturbed, but he found that he liked the shout of voices, the creak of wood and leather, the dart of movement.

He had also missed teaching. As he flew around the field, correcting forms and shouting advice, he thought about what Ginny had said about him teaching. The participants listened dutifully and fell into line. It made his heart swell to see them improve over the course of the morning and early afternoon.

When he’d first seen the participants, he had been surprised. A part of him had forgotten that Ginny taught at the college, and he’d assumed that the training camp would be for teenagers. So, it was a bit of a shock to see people ranging from late teens to his age and older. The teens were responsive and respectful. The adults were curious and humble. He’d become so used to working with sullen Auror trainees and colleagues who were burned out and apathetic. Here, he was filled with energy.

And he enjoyed working with Ginny. After an hour or two of instruction, he fell into easy sync with her. It struck him that they were more relaxed than they’d ever been when they were dating. He liked it. He’d _missed_ Ginny. He hadn’t realized how much.

Near the end of the morning, when the students were losing energy and beginning to drift into small groups at the edges of the practice field, he and Ginny began a spontaneous Seeker’s game. His pulse raced. Ginny flattened herself to the handle of her broom, flyaways streaming around her face. The Snitch glinted in the hard afternoon sun, even with charms softening its glare.

Harry howled and laughed when Ginny spun and shot away from a collision course with him. She caught the Snitch and held it up. From around the field, the students cheered.

Harry landed and hopped off his broom. Ginny beamed and pushed hair out of her eyes. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders in a brief hug.

His heart was full. It was good to feel connected to her again. He loved her, though he wasn’t in love with her anymore, and the feeling of that made him so happy. Ginny grinned at him, and he got the sense that she felt the same way.


	8. Chapter 8

The little bell rang brightly when Harry entered the coffee shop.

He walked into a solid wall of coffee and bacon aroma. The breakfast crowd hadn’t cleared yet. Malfoy was working behind the till again, easily identified by his hair. His eyes widened and then narrowed when Harry reached the front of the queue.

“Hey, Malfoy.” 

“Potter,” Malfoy said cautiously.

“Same as yesterday, please.”

“A bland coffee and a ham sandwich? You may have to wait a few minutes so I can have the staff dig through the garbage for bread stale enough to suit your tastes.”

It was fascinating to hear the posh lilt come out in his voice despite the jarring use of “garbage” rather than “rubbish”—almost enough that the insult nearly slid over Harry.

“Merli— _God_ , Malfoy. Just give me what you served me yesterday, you dick. The coffee thing with fancy bits on top. And the bougie bread is fine, thanks.”

“It’s still breakfast,” Malfoy said in slow, clear tones. “We only serve breakfast sandwiches.”

Harry glanced at the menu. “So give me an egg and ham sandwich? But hold the eggs.”

Malfoy drummed his fingers. Harry smiled at him. Malfoy glanced at the queue over Harry’s shoulder, accepted his credit card, and rang up the order. He gave Harry a number stand.

“Cheers,” Harry said.

“Next?” Malfoy said, already looking past him. 

Harry took the same table he’d sat at before. The shop had a different energy in the morning—brighter, busier. He considered the decor again. At first glance, the coffee shop was clearly Muggle, and he assumed the staff members were Muggle, though he couldn’t be sure. Ginny and Luna had given him the impression that wizarding folk in the US were more integrated with Muggle society. His gaze sought out clues—any unconscious moves to reach for a wand, any stray bits of magic, enchanted objects. He caught sight of a painting depicting a golden field that rippled in a breeze. After that, catching the few other magical details was easier: an extra clock behind the service counter with the hand pointing at “breakfast rush!” (“late morning lull” next to it), a small wooden bird that blinked at the customers from a shelf above the bathroom door, a pot that continuously poured steaming coffee into a mug. All shimmered under the faint oil-sheen of illusory magic.

The thing that most struck Harry about these little pieces—besides the fact that they were magical—was that they were as bland as the rest of the decor in the shop, clearly chosen for pleasantness and not to reflect Malfoy’s personality. Though, what had Harry expected from Malfoy? Marble busts? Stuffy old portraits that whispered insults about the patrons? Peacocks? Snakes and Slytherin colors?

“Ham and egg sandwich, no eggs. And a brulee coffee,” the waitress said, and Harry gave a little jump.

“Yep! Thank you.” He smiled at her.

She was the same waitress as last time, the one with purple-streaked hair. She eyed him like he might tell her that she’d delivered the wrong order again, and then—when he only continued to smile—scooped up the number stand and returned to the counter. Malfoy glanced up, met her gaze, and then met Harry’s. He narrowed his eyes at Harry’s smile. Turned back to his work.

Harry peeled back the sandwich’s flaky bread to see what kind of frilly thing passed for breakfast here. There was the ham with some kind of white cheese on top, flecked with green specks and a drizzle of sauce. There were no pickled carrots this time. Instead, there was a hash made with some kind of purple veg and onions. He tucked in.

The purple veg was potatoes.

So. What _would_ Harry expect from Malfoy’s tastes? Not a coffee shop in Oregon, that was for sure. Harry only had his memories of the Manor and the Slytherin common room. More than ten years had passed since school, and this Malfoy was clearly a different persona. So, who knew? Maybe Malfoy liked, um—Harry glanced at the art on the walls—coffee beans and flowers, farm equipment and…some kind of sea rock rising from the sandy surf; some kind of rocky well surging with water.

Harry looked at these last two paintings the longest. Something about the dignity of that single sea stack rising from the surf struck him, especially placed next to the painting of the rocky well and its violent rush of water. The painting was Muggle, so it didn’t move, but he got the sense of powerful motion and sea spray.

He glanced back at Malfoy, who had just finished snapping a lid on a drink and handing it to a customer with a smile. Malfoy never had been very good at pretending to feel something he didn’t. And though he might have learned the art of dissembling sometime over the last ten years, Harry got the impression this wasn’t an act. The staff who worked with Malfoy smiled, nodded, danced around him, and said straightforward things to him with easy confidence. Judging by their body language, they got equally straightforward responses.

Malfoy occasionally pulled his features into a sarcastic expression, but he always received good-natured laughter in return. Some of the customers appeared to be regulars, and he stopped to chat with them even if he wasn’t on the till.

He still looked like Malfoy. Older, of course. Harry was still getting used to that. But there was something else about him, something different, something besides the short haircut and the Muggle clothes.

The haughtiness was gone. That’s what. And he held himself confidently, but not ramrod straight nor slouching.

As Malfoy worked the till and the coffee machines, the hand of the wizarding clock behind the counter inched itself into the green “late-morning lull” segment. The queue emptied. Malfoy rifled through the racks of bread, taking stock; several trays had already been emptied. He rearranged these, placed several new pastries in the glass case, and glanced up at the clock. He leaned towards the purple-streaked server. She laughed.

He strolled around the side of the counter and met Harry’s gaze with a lazy expression, which was when Harry realized that Malfoy had known he’d been watching the entire time. His heart flip-flopped.

“Let me guess,” Malfoy said. “Luna put you up to this. Or have you taken up the hobby of following me again?”

“Maybe I just like the coffee.”

“Please. You’d drink swill and think it’s good.”

“Malfoy. You just insulted your own coffee.”

Malfoy snorted. “No. You did by drinking it. What _do_ you want? Satisfying your curiosity?”

“Getting my caffeine fix. Having a sandwich.”

“Getting an eyeful?” Malfoy sneered.

Harry spluttered. “What?”

Malfoy smirked. Then he narrowed his eyes. “It’s interesting how some things don’t change, isn’t it?”

“What?”

Malfoy’s gaze flicked over Harry’s face. “You’ve clearly got better taste in eyewear. But your hair is as atrocious as ever.”

Harry patted his head. “It’s my hair.”

“Exactly.”

Harry smoothed it down—in vain, of course. “Leave my hair out of it, thanks. At least I don’t wear it slicked like an eleven-year-old git.”

Malfoy’s eyes flickered. He frowned. “So. Why are you here? And don’t give me some nonsense about the food.”

“The food’s good, actually. And I like your shop. I like…what you’ve done with it.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed as if he were attempting to identify an insult in Harry’s words—though Harry was being sincere, so wished him luck with that.

“And I thought I’d see if we could…chat. You know. Since you’re obviously a part of Ginny and Luna’s life.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “What? Going to catch up on a decade of history?”

“Why not? Better now than in another decade. We might as well get along since we share friends. And if Luna and Ginny say you’re all right, then you must be.”

“Of course. I have the Luna and Ginny stamp of approval,” Malfoy said mockingly.

“Yes, in fact. I trust their judgment. And if they say it’s worth getting to know you, then it is.”

Malfoy frowned, but this time because he looked genuinely nonplussed.

“I’m off at two,” he said abruptly.

“What?”

Malfoy snapped his fingers. “I’m off my shift at two. We can become bosom buddies then. But you’ll have to order something else if you’re going to stay.”

“What? Why? No one else is. People are here for hours with one cup of tea. I had a soup bowl of coffee and a posh sandwich.”

“You are not people.” Malfoy stood and held out a hand. For one awkward moment, Harry thought Malfoy wanted to hold his hand. Then he thought Malfoy wanted to shake it. Then he thought maybe Malfoy wanted his credit card. So that’s what he gave him.

Malfoy sniffed and strode away with it. The waitress returned a few minutes later with a slice of chocolate torte, his credit card, and a cup of tea.

The torte was very good. So was the tea. Harry ate and drank and watched people come and go. He watched the little wooden bird keep vigil over the shop. He thought that maybe he caught another man throwing it a wink, and he thought maybe the bird winked back.

The man looked like anyone else Harry had seen in the shop or on the street. Jeans. Boots. T-shirt. Harry tried to spot anything that made him stand apart from the Muggles, but the problem was, Harry still didn’t have a handle on what _Muggles_ looked like here. 

Breakfast rush over, Malfoy returned to his post at the window. He scooped flour and other powdery ingredients from tubs, measured out liquids. Watching Malfoy’s back as he worked reminded Harry vaguely of Potions class, though Malfoy had never moved quite so swiftly or with such long movements. In Potions, you tended to move carefully if you didn’t want to toss ingredients into someone else’s cauldron—or knock it over. But this was as if Malfoy had taken all of his efficiency and set it free.

For a time, Harry watched Malfoy’s shoulders as he mixed and kneaded dough.

It occurred to Harry that he could walk around until two and return then. No reason for him to sit here. Then his gaze drifted to the street view beyond Malfoy, at a bus passing and a woman on a skateboard with a dog, and he thought he didn’t mind sitting for a little while.

He’d never liked sitting when he was in the Auror office. His cubicle neighbors used to send hexes over the walls whenever he jiggled his leg hard enough to rattle their joined desks—which was at least daily when he was in the office. He preferred to be outside. He preferred to be _moving_.

Even at Luna and Ginny’s, he had the niggling sense of needing to do something, anything, even if it was to go on a long walk.

He didn’t jiggle his leg here, though. The urge to move did not push him up out of his seat. Maybe watching others move and work soothed that part of him.

People came and went. The little bell above the door jangled. Strains of guitar music filtered through the sounds of conversations and coffee grinding.

Sunlight moved across the shop as the day progressed. The hand of the clock edged into “lunch rush.” The rumble of conversation grew into a background roar.

“Earth to Potter.”

Harry shook his head. Malfoy stood nearby with his eyebrows raised in a quizzical, lightly mocking expression.

Harry blinked. He hadn’t realized that he had zoned out so completely. He came out of his daze, but the sense of being clear and empty and fully present stayed with him. “Hey, Malfoy.”

“Hi, Potter,” Malfoy said slowly.

“I think you must put something in your coffee.”

“Excuse me?”

Harry shook his head. “Nothing. Is it two?”

Malfoy stared at him. “Yes. But. By all means, feel free to loiter. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Nope! Through with loitering. Unless you were going to join me?”

Malfoy sniffed. “I love my shop. But I spend enough time in it. No. I thought I’d give you a tour of the kitchen.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Malfoy cast a condescending look at Harry’s empty dish and tea cup, which had been sitting on the table for hours.

“You can deposit those in the tub over there.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry turned in the direction Malfoy pointed. A woman was setting a plate and mug into a plastic tub on a side table. “Seriously? Are you too good to clear the tables?”

“Yes, Potter. My coffeehouse, my rules. Also, it’s standard coffee shop etiquette here. Not that I should expect you to understand the concept.”

“I’d give you the finger, but that wouldn’t be proper etiquette.”

Harry placed his plate and cup in the tub, while Malfoy waited near the table with a lightly supercilious look that Harry chose to ignore. _This_ Malfoy was more familiar to him. Here was the haughtiness he hadn’t seen in evidence before.

“Be prepared to be amazed,” Malfoy said.

Harry snorted. If Malfoy noticed, he didn’t show it. He led Harry through the wide open doorway into the back recesses of the shop, past a big machine that, as Harry walked past, he realized had a large metal drum filled with coffee beans.

They entered a new area, and for an instant, Harry thought they’d walked into Wizard Space—here in full view of Muggles. His mouth opened to say something, but he realized that this was physical space and the building truly was bigger than it looked. The smallness of the coffee shop was an illusion. The back was easily two or three times the size of the front, filled with machines and sacks of coffee beans and flour and sugar. The smell changed back here, took on a stronger aroma of coffee beans and yeast.

“Welcome to our kitchen,” Malfoy said. “This here is a roaster. We roast all of our own coffee. All of the chocolate we use, as well. That happens over there.” In a dry voice, he added, “Just about the only thing we don’t do is mill our own flour,” and Harry couldn’t tell if he was being serious or taking the piss. He didn’t have a chance to ask because Malfoy was already several feet away, pointing out the ovens, the cooling racks, some other machines.

Malfoy hadn’t been joking about the tour.

Harry nodded along, though it all washed right over him in a stream of American-and-posh. He was used to Molly Weasley’s kitchen with all of its washing and cooking charms, and he was used to Weasley Wizard Wheezes and its backroom filled with bubbling cauldrons and contained explosions. This was so _Muggle_ , so full of metal and humming electrical appliances, and Malfoy showed him around it with an air of brusque casualness.

“And that’s it,” Malfoy said. “That is the esteemed kitchen.”

“O-kay.” Harry drew it into two words, made it almost a question.

Malfoy gazed back at him, arms crossed. He was streaked with flour again. This didn’t seem to bother him.

“You have magical artifacts in your shop.”

“Disillusioned, and perfectly legal.”

“But all of _this_ is Muggle.”

“Is it?”

“I don’t get it. You opened a Muggle coffee shop with charmed decorations under illusion but have a completely Muggle back kitchen.”

“You really lost your imagination in the Aurors. Or did you never have one?”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Malfoy only sniffed. “I have a very good imagination, thank you very much.” He turned, walking toward the back wall, obviously expecting Harry to follow.

Harry resisted. For a moment.

“Behold,” Malfoy said, opening a thick metal door. “My walk-in fridge.”

Harry eyed it. Frigid air wafted out. “Should I be impressed?”

“That’s up to you. I have no control over your emotions.”

Malfoy walked into the fridge. Harry stepped cautiously inside behind him and cast a discreet Warming Charm. For a fridge, it was large, about the size of a utility room. Malfoy strolled through the back wall and disappeared. Harry braced himself—he didn’t trust Malfoy not to lead him into a solid wall, unlike Luna—and strode through it after him.

“Malfoy,” he said, glancing around the large space filled with racks of dough and milk and vegetables and meats. “Are you using Wizard Space…to keep food?”

“What else would I be using it for? I keep all of the cursed heirlooms in my flat.”

From the nearest rack, Harry picked up a container of creme fraiche and looked at it.

“So you see,” Malfoy said, in the tones of someone coming to a grand conclusion.

“Cheese. I see a lot of cheese.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and took an apple from a crate. Tossed it in his hand. Took a bite.

Harry plucked a pear from an open cardboard box. Raised an eyebrow at Malfoy. Tasted it. Frowned.

Malfoy smirked. “Good, isn’t it?” 

Harry didn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing, although he did finish the pear.

“So there you have it,” Malfoy said as they left, and locked the fridge behind them once again. “This has been my life for the last four years.”

Harry gazed at the metal racks, the long steel tables that gleamed.

“Spit it out. Whatever it is, Potter. That look on your face distresses me.”

Harry grimaced. “Why a coffee shop? Why Oregon, for that matter? I find it hard to believe you followed Ginny and Luna here.”

“And why is that?”

“Just—don’t pretend you were friends, Malfoy.”

Malfoy pursed his lips. “I might have been. What do you know? But in fact, I followed Pansy.”

“Pansy?”

“Yes. Our year. Slytherin. Little pug nose.”

“I remember Pansy. Didn’t you two date?”

The expression that crossed Malfoy’s face was complicated. Then he sniffed. “For about five seconds. But of course you’d notice.”

Harry sensed a barb but didn’t know how to respond to that. “But—Pansy. In Oregon? What was she doing here?”

“Shagging Ginny, I suspect.”

Harry choked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Of course I’m serious. I’m always serious.”

“First, I’m going to let that one slide. Are you telling me…?”

“That Pansy fucked off to America with Ginny and Luna? Yes.”

“Where is she now?” He reckoned he would have noticed the signs if Pansy were at the farm. There was a distinct lack of…shrieking.

“Traveling the world.”

“Of course she is. How nice for her. I hadn’t taken her for the traveling type. So Pansy came, and you decided to…what, follow?”

Malfoy smiled flatly. “I wasn’t exactly revered in England, was I?”

Harry’s eyes flitted to Malfoy’s left arm. Malfoy noticed and tugged at his cuff. Harry’s gaze flicked back to Malfoy’s. “I reckon not.”

Actually, Harry wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to him to leave England, himself. Albeit for the opposite reason as Malfoy: to leave behind the adoring fans and the requests for appearances. Although, was it really so different? Unwanted attention was unwanted attention. For the first time since encountering him here, Harry felt some kinship with Malfoy. It was an odd, unexpected feeling.

“So you came here with Pansy, who came with Luna and Ginny—I won’t ask, it’s not my business”—actually, he thought he might ask Luna later—“and decided to open a coffee shop.”

“I like coffee,” Malfoy said with dignity.

 _You also like being a prick,_ Harry almost said, and then remembered that he was supposed to be friendly toward Malfoy, so instead, he said, “You must.”

“Amazing.”

“What?” Harry said, cautiously.

“An ounce of tact. You’ve absorbed that much in a decade. And just used it all up in one go.”

Harry decided he didn’t need to be _too_ friendly.

“Fuck off, Malfoy.”

***

“Malfoy gave me a tour of his shop today,” Harry said.

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. Luna beamed. “Did he show you the walk-in fridge?”

“Yeah, he did.” Harry cheerfully speared some Brussels sprouts and chewed them, meeting Ginny’s disbelieving look with his smile.

“That’s wonderful. We thought of installing a fridge like that for our produce and milk, but I think our basement works just as well,” Luna said.

“Yeah. It was brilliant. He’s got a lot of Muggle machinery in there.”

“He’s used a few of those things,” Ginny said, dryly.

“He’s really good with them,” Luna added.

“Kind of nice, seeing how he runs the place. Kind of like it’s nice seeing how you run the farm. I’ve only known the Aurors for years.”

Ginny was giving him an outright suspicious look now, as if perhaps she thought he were Polyjuiced or that he’d got into a potion he shouldn’t have.

Luna brightened. “That’s it!”

Harry’s smile dropped. “What’s it?”

“You aren’t sure what you want to do now that you’ve left the Aurors, are you? And it will be difficult for you to know, really, unless you see some of what’s possible. So you should see what it’s like to work different jobs.”

Harry glanced at Ginny, who was smirking now. She said, “I think it’s a great idea.” At Luna’s beaming smile, she added, mouth full, “Did you enjoy the shop? Maybe you can be a barista.”

“Oh, yeah. Sounds like loads of fun.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Luna said.

Harry’s eyes widened, sensing his sarcasm backfiring on him. “Actually, I probably should start with something else, something less…”

Ginny raised her eyebrows. “Intense? Demanding? Crowded into a small space with your childhood nemesis?”

“Actually, yeah. You know. Why don’t I just stick around the farm? I’m really enjoying it here. I like working with the animals and the Quidditch students.”

“You can,” Luna said. “But you should check out other opportunities. I’ll find some for you.”

Harry opened his mouth to decline, but Luna looked so happy at the prospect. Also, Ginny was sending him a pointedly warning look. The words dried up on his tongue.

“Thanks, Luna. That sounds great.”


	9. Chapter 9

Harry spent another day on the farm with Luna. He met the white bison, managed to anger the Erumpent (though Luna calmed it with a song), and collected fallen Thunderbird feathers from the forest’s edge.

“I am still looking for the right shadowing opportunity for you,” Luna told him.

“No rush. I’ve got nearly two weeks,” Harry said. “I’m just as happy to hang around the farm. What are you going to use these for, anyway?” He held up a bronze feather the length of his arm.

“Writing quills for trolls.”

“Ah. I see.” But he didn’t.

Luna smiled at him and accepted the feather. Later, she showed him how to carve the tips into nibs. Harry cut his fingers twice.

“Oh, that’s not bad. I cut the length of my palm when I first tried.”

“ _Ouch_.”

“Yes, it did hurt, but not for long.”

Harry bit his lip as she finished bandaging his fingers, his eyes watering.

He expected another quiet evening of cooking and talking with the windows open to the evening breeze. They had some ground beef from a neighboring farm and a small basket of sweet, creamy potatoes from the vegetable patch. A cottage pie, perhaps.

Ginny swooped down on him as he stepped into the kitchen with the basket of potatoes.

“Pub night!” she exclaimed, hooking an arm through his.

“Wha—?”

A couple of the potatoes went flying. Ginny snatched one from the air. Harry dropped the basket to snatch the other.

Ginny looked at the potatoes rolling around their feet.

“Don’t say a thing,” he said.

She snorted, and they Summoned the basket and the potatoes off the floor.

“So, pub night?”

He noticed she was dressed in ripped black jeans and a loose blue shirt—not her usual around-the-farm kind of outfit.

“Yes! We have to show you the local breweries. We need to get started if we’re going to try all of them while you’re here.”

“Breweries. How many are there?”

“Fifty non-magical. Fifteen magical,” she said, then cackled at Harry’s expression.

Luna came in with a basket of apples on her hip. “We’ll do our best,” she assured him. “But there are a few with similar menus we could probably skip.”

***

Luna and Ginny Apparated with him to a residential neighborhood in the city. They walked past houses brimming with flowers, vines, and vegetables. Luna named the plants as if introducing Harry to guests at a party as she strolled hand in hand with Ginny. They emerged onto a commercial street filled with pedestrians. The atmosphere was lively and casual, and cars passed up and down the street.

“More coffee shops,” Harry said.

“And restaurants.”

“And bookshops.” Luna beamed.

They led him through a green-draped archway to a restaurant that looked like it had grown organically from a small food stand into a sprawling structure of wooden porches and side buildings. A shiver traveled over Harry’s skin, but he didn’t realize they had entered a wizarding establishment until they passed a carving of a snake that writhed along the wall.

“It’s magical,” he said, in surprise.

Luna smiled. “Oh, yes. It is.”

And for the life of him, Harry didn’t know if she was agreeing that it was literally magical or “magical” as a turn of phrase.

Harry thought they would stop at the purple-painted podium to speak with the host, but Ginny and Luna walked past him, and Harry threw him an awkward smile while following after them. 

“Draco usually sits in the Unicorn Room,” Luna said. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Wait. Malfoy isn’t here, is he?”

“Oh, yes. He usually arrives a few minutes before us. It makes him more comfortable if he chooses the table.”

Ginny didn’t meet his eye, but there was a smile on her face, and Harry didn’t trust it.

They followed a wooden walkway alongside a window into the kitchen, which Harry happened to glance at just as a plume of flame exploded up. Past a dining room that appeared as if it were underwater, with rippling green reflections on the walls (it reminded Harry of the Slytherin common room). Past a twisty stairwell that led to a basement room from which sounds of laughter floated up, along with something like a donkey braying. Around a corner to a door carved with fantastical creatures Harry didn’t recognize.

 _The Unicorn Room_ , read the painted sign above the door.

Sure enough, Malfoy was already inside. He had claimed a corner booth near a window. The glow from the stained glass lamp above the table threw colored light over his hair. He was dressed in a shimmery grey shirt and charcoal jeans, which were at once more casual and more fashionable than anything Harry had seen him in at the coffeehouse. In comparison, Harry felt drab in his khaki trousers and brown button-down.

Malfoy glanced up at their approach. His eyes flicked over Ginny and Luna and found Harry’s.

Harry’s stomach gave a dip. He nodded at Malfoy. Malfoy nodded in return.

“Hi, Draco,” Luna said, leaning in for a hug. To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy broke into a genuine smile and folded her into his arms.

“Malfoy,” Ginny said, and—to Harry’s further surprise—bent down for her own quick hug, which Malfoy returned with a dry, but fond, “Weasley.”

Harry assumed he would sit next to Luna or Ginny, but they slid together into the booth opposite Malfoy. He hesitated, calculating the amount of space left on the seat next to Ginny.

Malfoy glanced up. He looked unimpressed. “Honestly, Potter. I won’t bite.”

Harry huffed and took the spot next to him. The seat was squashy and sent up smells of antique wood and beer as Harry sat down.

Harry was acutely aware of Malfoy next to him. He couldn’t remember ever being so close when they weren’t in a fight. Malfoy, however, appeared not to notice him.

“The hefeweizen is on special,” he drawled in Ginny’s direction.

Ginny, who was staring down at the table, frowned and flexed her fingers, her “tell” when thinking.

Harry also looked down. The menu appeared on the table in front of him, shimmering under the glass top with a faint mother-of-pearl sheen. He tapped the image until it displayed the drinks. Since this was a brewery, he’d already planned on checking them out, but alcohol had become a necessity now that he was sitting next to Malfoy.

The list of beers stretched three pages. Each bore an outrageous name, along with a startling alcohol content and a description that might have been written by a poet imbibing the goods. Harry's eyes glazed over.

In the corner of his vision, Malfoy tapped his longer fingers on the table. Harry couldn’t tell if he was flipping through the menu or fidgeting. A half-empty pint of golden beer already sat on the table in front of him. Harry had half a mind to ask what he’d ordered, and then he remembered it was _Malfoy_ , and frowned.

Another movement caught his eye, and he looked up. “Oh.”

“What?”

Harry stared out the window next to Malfoy. “It’s charmed.”

He was looking at a field on the edge of a forest. Unicorns grazed near the treeline, the late afternoon sun gleaming over their hides.

“Potter. That’s the actual view outside.”

“Really?” The word was out before Harry could catch himself.

Malfoy smirked and took a pull of his beer. Harry resisted the urge to tip the glass into Malfoy’s face.

Luna said, “They have the Bleu Moon Omelet.”

“You liked that one. It goes good with the sour beer,” Ginny said.

“Is that the one that comes with the fig jam crostini?” Malfoy asked.

“Yes,” Luna said. “That’s my favorite part.”

Harry looked between them, struck by their easy familiarity.

Luna turned to him. “What do you think you’ll get, Harry?”

“Dunno.” He flipped through the menu offerings. “Do they have cottage pie?” Because it was already on his mind.

Ginny snorted. So did Malfoy. It was like he got the sound in stereo; they had similar expressions on their faces, too.

“ _What?_ ” he said.

Ginny shook her head, clearly trying not to grin wider. Malfoy had no qualms, though. He did not try to hold his own smirk back. “Predictable Potter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing at all. The items with meat are on the last page.”

Harry huffed and flipped to the back of the menu where there were a number of menu items with meat.

“Harry likes cottage pie,” Luna put in. “That’s all right, Harry. It’s natural to get something you’re familiar with, especially when you’re in unfamiliar surroundings. And they do make a lovely cottage pie here.”

“Thanks,” he said, gruffly.

“I’ll get the roast Brussels sprouts and tempeh with turnips,” Luna said. “They make very good Brussels sprouts here.”

“You get them every time,” Ginny put in, teasing but fond, and pressed a kiss to Luna’s temple.

“The woman knows what she likes,” Malfoy said. “Leave her alone.”

Ginny balled up the corner of her napkin, dipped it into her water glass, and tossed it at Malfoy. “I’ll harass you, instead.”

“Somewhat more acceptable, if you must harass someone.”

Harry snorted.

The waitress arrived and they put their orders in. Harry was still stuck on the beer menu when Ginny suggested he try a tasting flight, and Harry—unsure of what that entailed but already tired of making choices and being teased about them—agreed to let her order for him. Though, he wondered if he would regret that when he saw the gleam in her eye.

“I spotted the new foal,” Malfoy said to Luna.

“Did you really?” She peered out the window. The herd of unicorns had moved across the meadow to a bright patch of wildflowers. At the edge of the group, two of them leaped into a chase in dream-like slow motion.

“Yes. She went around the other side with her mother. Beautiful rose gold coat.”

Harry—realizing he was staring at Malfoy in disbelief—tore his gaze away. The Unicorn Room was done in rich, red-hued wood and embroidered upholstery. There was a tapestry on the far wall, next to a door that must have been for staff. Silver strands glinted in it, as if it’d been woven with unicorn hair. In a pastoral painting above, a unicorn drank at the water’s edge. In another, a unicorn and a lion lay together. The lion licked the unicorn’s face slowly, calmly. Harry wondered how old these things were and how the restaurant had come across them.

“So Malfoy gave you the grand tour of his shop,” Ginny said, drawing his attention back. She had a peculiar look on her face again, and Harry didn’t trust it.

Malfoy didn’t say anything next to him, didn’t move. Harry said, “Yeah. It was nice.”

“I never did ask,” Luna said. “What did you think of the larder?”

“The— Oh. The fridge thing? It was. Uh. I mean. It was impressive.” He thought he’d already told them about the trip? But a moment later, Ginny cried, “He likes your larder!” to Malfoy, and Harry felt his face flame.

Malfoy did not appear impressed. “Yes, yes, Weasley.”

“You’re the worst,” Harry told her.

“What? I’m glad for you, Harry. How long has it been since you’ve checked out someone’s larder?”

“I’m not answering that. I have—I have my own larder, thank you.”

Ginny cackled.

Luna said, “But you haven’t been able to use it, Harry. It needs to be de-infested.”

Ginny laughed harder.

Harry was saved by the waitress returning with a tray of drinks. The tasting flight turned out to be a long wooden block with eight glasses set inside. He had never been so happy to see so much beer, and he told the waitress so. She grinned at him and winked, and Harry felt his face grow hotter.

“I bet you could get her phone number by the end of the night,” Ginny said.

Harry, in the process of lifting the first glass of beer to his mouth, paused just short of inhaling the liquid. “What?”

“Yeah. How long has it been since you’ve gotten laid?”

“‘Phone number’? ‘Gotten’?” he said. He stolidly ignored Malfoy’s gaze, which he felt prickling the side of his face.

Ginny licked beer from her lips. “Yeah. When’s the last time you went on a date?”

“I’ve been busy!”

Luna said, “It’s all right if you haven’t been on a date in a while. I think it’s kind of sweet, waiting for the right person.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, decided against it, and downed the beer. Bitter, thick, slightly sweet.

He clunked the glass down. “First off, my dating life is off the table.” He could see Ginny working up a gleaming retort to that and pushed on: “Second? Second, let’s talk about something else.”

“Is this what I was missing by sitting at the Slytherin table?” Malfoy murmured.

“Please. Your drama was probably far more interesting than ours,” Ginny said. “Mostly Hermione talked about homework, and Harry and Ron went on about Quidditch and food.”

“Oi. You talked about Quidditch, too,” Harry said.

“I don’t blame you,” Luna said to Harry. “Sometimes you need to focus on something simple and pleasant, like Quidditch, rather than the real issues pressing on your mind.”

At that, they all four fell into a silence.

Luna broke it herself. “Well. I think it’s nice that you’re getting to know each other.”

Harry tossed a glance at Malfoy, who was resting a hand on the edge of his glass. A chunk of his fringe had fallen forward, softly, over his forehead.

Harry picked up the next beer glass. “So, what are these, anyway? Are they meant to be a mystery?”

“Harry. She pointed at each one and told you the name. They’re written down.” Ginny pointed at the little slips of paper stuck to the wooden block behind each glass.

Malfoy sniffed.

“How am I supposed to see them there? The glasses are in the way.”

Ginny stared at him. “So. Lift. Them.”

Malfoy didn’t make a sound, but Harry could practically feel him holding back laughter.

This was a disaster. Who had introduced Ginny to Malfoy? And he still couldn’t decide whose side Luna was on.

The beer in his hand was red. He took a drink. Frowned at it. “Why did I order this? Why didn’t I order just one drink?”

“It’s a tasting flight,” Luna said. “So you can try the different flavors. Do you like that one?”

“All right, I guess. It’s beer.”

Ginny exhaled. “Wasted on you.” She began to slide the wooden block with glasses towards herself.

“Wait.” Harry clamped his hand down on its edge. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you my pint, taking your flight.”

“No. This is mine.” He took another sip of the red beer. “What am I supposed to be tasting?”

Ginny took the glass from his hand and took a generous sip. “It’s a red ale. Bitter. Malty.”

He took it back. “It’s beer.”

“You’re both a disaster,” Malfoy said, and took the glass from Harry. Before Harry could protest, Malfoy took a sip. “Medium-bodied. Strong character from the caramelized malt. Fruity aroma; they use local varieties of hops. Crisp finish.” He handed the glass back to Harry. “The first one you drank. It was a porter.” Malfoy reached for the empty glass, swirled the dregs as if evaluating a wine, and drained them. “Rich. Sweet and bitter. They put cocoa beans in. Completely different flavor profile.” He set the empty glass down. He picked up the next glass in line, which was a dark golden in color.

“ _Excuse_ me,” Harry said.

“You’re excused. This one is a fruit beer.” He sipped. “A sour fruit beer. Not bitter. Made with cherries.” He peered at the little label written on the block. “‘Release the Krieken.’ See?” He proffered it to Harry.

Harry—faced with ceding the fruit beer to Malfoy or putting down the red ale—accepted it with his free hand so he had one in each hand. Ginny snorted, and Luna laughed.

Harry ignored them and took a drink. He grimaced. “That is not beer.”

“It most certainly is,” Malfoy said, and reached forward to pluck both glasses from Harry’s hands. (His own glass was empty now, Harry noticed.) He set each glass into its spot on the block and then picked up the next. “Here. A hefeweizen. Something you’d be more used to.”

“Do you mind?” Harry said, before Malfoy could steal a drink. He took it from him and drained it in a gulp. “Beer.”

“A full-bodied wheat beer. Technically an ale, since it’s top-fermented. Did you even notice the color? It’s cloudy because it’s unfiltered.”

Harry stared at Malfoy incredulously. He was starting to feel warm in his gut and pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, which surprised him because he hadn’t really had that much to drink yet. But the numbers for the alcohol content had been pretty high.

He picked up the next glass and took a generous gulp. His hand flew to his mouth. He choked. “What?”

Ginny was too busy laughing. Luna craned her neck to read the label. “That’s the special herbal beer.”

“People drink this for pleasure?”

“I’ll gladly take it off your hands,” Malfoy drawled.

Harry scowled. He tossed back the rest in a gulp and suppressed a violent shiver. “Godric. That’s. Awful.”

“To be fair, the recipe was based on a medicinal brew,” Luna said. “But the hospices frequently ran out of stock because the Healers drank it. So the monks began to brew a version without the lobelia or wormwood as a recreational brew. After that, they were able to keep the medicinal version in stock, and the Healers could enjoy an herbal beer without puking. Or having seizures.”

“Though some with unrefined tastes can’t appreciate the history that went into that. They treat it like a shot of tequila,” Malfoy said.

“I can appreciate the history without appreciating the flavor.” He shot Malfoy a warning look before picking up the last of the glasses. It looked…promising. A bright golden color. He ignored the looks of his friends—Ginny’s gleaming eyes, Luna’s expectant smile, Malfoy’s faint smirk—and took a drink. It was easier to ignore them now that he was starting to feel a little warm. He rolled the beer around in his mouth before swallowing.

“Well?” Luna said.

“Light. Bitter. I like it.”

Malfoy snorted. “Of course you do. The IPA.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t mean anything by that.”

Ginny reached across the table to pat his hand. “It’s all right. You’re a man of simple tastes, Harry.”

“Speaking of simple tastes,” Malfoy said as the waitress arrived with the tray of food and set the cottage pie in front of Harry.

Harry didn’t mind. Cottage pie was _good_. The IPA was _good._ Also, he was pleasantly warm now, so he didn’t mind what his friends—and Malfoy—said. Why mess with a good thing? And cottage pie was a good thing.

“May I have one of these?” he said. “As a pint.”

“Sure thing,” the waitress said, smiled brightly, and cleared away the empty glasses.

Ginny cupped her hands around her mouth and stage-whispered, “Number.”

“What the hell, Ginny!” Harry glanced, but the waitress was already halfway across the dining room.

She shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

Harry decided that the cottage pie was more important, so he dropped the topic in favor of taking a bite. It was really good—the beef moist and rich, the potatoes slightly crispy on top with a crust of melted cheese.

They all tucked in, and the waitress returned with the pint of IPA, and Ginny only smirked at him this time after the waitress had turned away instead of saying something that could be overheard, and Harry only rolled his eyes in response.

“How’s the tempeh?” Malfoy asked Luna.

“Good. It’s a little creamier this time. I like it. But the Brussels sprouts are a bit overdone, I think. Not bad, though. Just a bit extra crispy. How is your Puffy Chicken Pie?”

“Not bad. They used dark meat this time, and they added rosemary. I’ve made better puff pastry, but this is passable. A bit heavy-handed on the cooking wine, though. I daresay this is a drunken chicken. They’ve got a different chef today.”

“The rosemary sounds like a nice addition. Last time you said that something was missing from the flavor profile. Does it feel more complete now?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes in thought as he chewed, fork held to his mouth. Harry watched, fascinated.

Malfoy swallowed. “I think that does it.”

“They do this every time,” Ginny told Harry in a stage whisper.

“Huh,” Harry said.

“Food is our business,” Luna said.

Ginny spoke around a bite of her burger. “This is true. A very good business.”

“The best,” Malfoy said. “Luna knows her art well. Best pickles and sauerkraut.”

She smiled.

“How is the tree doing?” Malfoy asked, expression gone somber.

“It hasn’t gotten better, but it hasn’t gotten worse. The leaves have curled a bit more since you last saw it, though it looks like the black discoloration has stabilized and it hasn’t lost anymore of them. So that’s a good sign, I think.”

Malfoy nodded. They chatted for a few more minutes about what they thought might be going on with the tree. Some of Luna’s theories sounded more than a bit far-fetched, but Malfoy considered each one with the same serious attention, and asked questions that drew more detailed explanations from Luna. Harry leaned his cheek heavily on his fist and listened. He’d never heard this level of discourse from Luna before and wondered if it was because he had never asked the right questions. Ginny, too, listened quietly as Luna and Malfoy conversed, but with a fond expression on her face, as if she were used to this.

“How are you enjoying your IPA, Harry?” Luna said, turning to him sometime later.

“It’s good. It’s very, very good. Very bitter. I like the bitter.”

Ginny snorted into her own drink.

The conversation rambled after that. They discussed other plants on the farm (including the onions, which were in flower), Luna’s latest experiments in spicy pickles, Ginny and Harry’s thoughts on the most recent bunch of Quidditch students, and the health of the farm’s creatures.

Meanwhile, the herd of unicorns galloped by in the window, including the little rose gold foal, which they all paused to admire. The colored light from the lamp above the table threw highlights over Malfoy’s hair that reminded Harry of the unicorns outside.

It struck Harry that Luna had said this was Malfoy’s favorite room. Which…was unexpected and absurd, wasn’t it? Peculiar. Out of character? Or maybe not.

“Your wand has a unicorn core, doesn’t it,” Harry said.

Malfoy flicked him a look, eyes guarded. “What business is it of yours? And how would you know?”

Harry’s face heated. The memory of Shell Cottage came back to him, of Ollivander’s skeletal hands gripping the hawthorn wand as he inspected it.

“Does it matter? It’s unicorn hair. I know it is.”

“It’s a perfectly acceptable wand core. It’s a very popular core, in fact.”

“All right.” Harry smirked and drained his pint.

“Unicorn hair wasn’t always so popular,” Luna said, and segued into a short history of wand cores.

Unicorns. He’d never taken Malfoy for a unicorn person. Harry looked at Malfoy from this new perspective. Malfoy, framed by the image of the unicorns in the golden light in the window, with his pale skin and with a pint glass clasped loosely in his hand, chatting with Luna. With his unicorn hair wand core.

“—different opportunities,” Luna was saying.

Harry blinked. “Huh?”

“I was telling Malfoy about the job shadowing opportunities. I think I found the perfect one to start.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Malfoy said, eyes glinting with malevolent humor.

“Yes. Harry is exploring his options now that he’s resigned from the Aurors.”

“Is that so?” Malfoy gave him a sharp, searching look.

Harry bristled. “I have nothing planned right now. I’m going to take some time to fix up Grimmauld Place.”

At the mention of the house, Malfoy’s expression turned inscrutable.

“To be fair, that job alone will probably take the next five years, at least,” Ginny said.

“Maybe a year,” Luna said.

“But after that,” Malfoy said.

Ginny lifted her glass. “The sky’s the limit.”

“Pastry chef,” Malfoy said.

“Quidditch broom polisher.”

“Erumpent caretaker.”

“Calligrapher.”

“You’re all the worst.”

“Potter.”

“What?”

“No,” Malfoy said. “A potter.”

“Ooh, yes. Or a wand maker.”

“Wand polisher.”

“Ginny!”

“Drink more, Harry. It makes everything better.”

He drank more.

“Dragonologist.”

“Scatologist!”

“Caprologist.”

“Glass blower.”

“Broom blower.”

That was it. Harry was drunk.

“So _what_ if I want to be a wand maker? Or polisher? Or blower?”

Malfoy choked.

“There, there,” Ginny told him through snorts of laughter.

“Mermish translator,” Luna said.

“Troll interpreter,” Harry said.

“You’d be a natural,” Ginny said.

“Crup breeder,” Malfoy said.

Harry snorted. “That’s Crup shit.”

“Spell designer?” Luna said.

“Pyrotechnic engineer.”

“Failed experiment.”

They lobbed ideas back and forth across the table until they were all laughing easily and uncontrollably, even Malfoy, whose shoulders shook. And that made Harry pause, which made Malfoy stop, as well.

“What, Potter?”

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair. He had creases at the edges of his eyes, and his cheeks were tinged pink.

Harry shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing isn’t an option,” Ginny said. “Or is it?”

Harry took her glass of cider and drained it.


	10. Chapter 10

For the second day in a row, Harry pushed open the door of Knead. This was beginning to feel familiar, like a habit. He walked in at lunchtime, close to the time Malfoy’s shift would be ending. The shop smelled strongly of cheese and meat. The crowd looked a little different today, people mostly in pairs and small groups, eating sandwiches and drinking beverages.

He’d spent the morning with Luna checking in on the animals and poking around the sick tree, then looking through the stacks of books in the basement’s magical library. The magical library was another room that used Wizard Space. It was hidden through a closet door in the normal basement, which was furnished with walls of bookshelves and plush old chairs. The books in the non-magical part of the basement included a lot on gardening, Muggle medicinal herbs, and 19th-century medical texts. 

The closet door—which was enchanted to inspire disinterest in Muggles—opened to a narrow corridor. The corridor was walled with bookshelves and was just wide enough to admit Harry’s shoulders. It exhaled the scents of old paper, wood, and leather. After a dozen feet, it widened into a small sitting area and then a maze of corridors beyond that. Harry vaguely remembered Ron teasing Hermione about getting lost in Luna and Ginny’s library, and he could understand now. 

He had spent the later part of the morning and the early part of the afternoon with Luna, looking through the indexes of books, searching for information about curses and magical plant illnesses. Doing research with Luna was very different from researching with Hermione. The library didn’t seem to have any organizing strategy that Harry could recognize, and half the time Luna couldn’t remember where a book was. She gave Harry directions like, “Look at that shelf near the middle. It’s sort of up near the top to the left.” 

It would have driven Hermione mad, and—with a small smile to himself—Harry suspected that it _had_ , if he remembered Ron’s teasing correctly. But Harry always managed to find the book she requested. She thanked him every time with a beatific smile before flipping open the pages seemingly at random and talking liltingly about her thoughts and theories. After a bit of flipping, she always found what she was looking for, and would explain the information to Harry. She didn’t write too many notes, just a word here and there, unlike Hermione’s furious scribbling. 

The piles of books around Luna grew and then shrank. Luna was much more casual, with none of the frenetic energy that overcame Hermione, and Harry liked when she shared information with him as she read and made notes. Maybe it was because he hadn’t grown up listening to her wax pedantically and so hadn’t fixed himself to automatically tune her out as he did with Hermione.

In the end, Luna left a haphazard stack of books next to her seat in the sitting area and concluded that they were missing some information.

“Would you like to visit the public library, Harry?” Luna asked, and Harry said yes.

He hadn’t realized that Luna would volunteer Malfoy to take him.

***

Harry hung out near the door of the shop for a few minutes. It had become habit to slip directly into the queue, but he was only here to meet up with Malfoy. Malfoy, who wasn’t in evidence. He hoped this meant Malfoy had forgotten about him and he could slip back out. He would tell Luna they’d have to go another day; maybe she would take him herself. Then Harry wouldn’t have to spend time with Malfoy. It was bad enough, being subjected to the memories of the night before, which kept resurfacing. Malfoy and the unicorns. Merlin.

After a minute, though, the smell of coffee got to him, and he stepped up to the till. He might as well grab a coffee before he Apparated back to the farm.

He opened his mouth to tell the cashier what he wanted, then realized that his usual drink order—with its mound of whipped cream and candied lemon zest—would not make for a good to-go beverage.

“Ah…” he said, looking up at the huge menu.

“Latte with a shot of caramel,” a familiar voice said.

Malfoy walked up to the counter on the customer’s side, wearing a button-up and jeans. No flour on him today. No evidence of last night’s revelry on his face, either. Harry suspected he kept a lot of sobering and hangover potions on hand. Luna had said he brewed.

Harry scowled. “Excuse me. I can order my own coffee.”

“By all means,” Malfoy said, waving a hand.

The cashier waited patiently.

“A. Er.” Harry chose at random. “The double dirty chai, please.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy make a face and felt a surge of satisfaction from ignoring him.

Harry completed the ritual of paying with the card and then stepped aside and leaned against the pick-up counter.

“How was your day?” he said. “Any unicorn sightings?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Good afternoon, Potter. How was your morning? No unicorn sightings, I’m afraid. Only a rather big pillock.”

“Shouldn’t have looked in the mirror.”

Malfoy glanced in the wall length mirror behind the counter and then back at Harry. “Hmmm. Nope. Still there.”

The barista set a cup down. “Double dirty.” To Malfoy: “Have a good one, Draco!”

“Try not to flood the shop.”

The barista grinned, and Harry got the impression this was a running joke. “Not if you’re not around.”

***

Malfoy led Harry down the street towards the Apparition point. Harry had made the trip enough that the way was familiar now. He fell easily into step with Malfoy while sipping from his drink, which was…interesting. Very sweet and not quite tea, not quite coffee.

It was odd to be walking these streets with someone else. He’d got used to exploring them on his own. His gaze skated over the shop windows as they passed. Even in the reflection, Malfoy’s hair shone bright in the summer sun.

Harry frowned and stopped at something he noticed on one of the windows. A silvery line with a star, like an asterisk, at its end. It stood up vertically, and it gleamed with different colors, like the shimmer of oil on water. “What does that symbol mean? There’s one on your door, as well. It looks like a wand. Is it for wizarding establishments?”

“Magical,” Malfoy corrected automatically, a bit like Luna, but snootier. “They’re magical establishments, yes. Or friendly to them. This shop is owned by a Noble—a Squib. There’s another down the street owned by a non-magical family member of a magical.”

Harry paid attention to more of the doors and windows that they walked by. Now that he knew what he was looking at, he noticed the symbol on more doors than he had before.

“Ginny and Luna haven’t shown me around the city much yet. Is there a magical district?”

“A Diagon Alley? Of a sort. We’re not so…separated here.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond. This was so unlike the Malfoy he remembered. A few days ago, he would have said something cutting in reply. Who was _Malfoy_ to lecture him on separation? But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything now—not after he’d seen Malfoy talking so seriously and quietly to Luna. And not while walking down the street to the library with him, Malfoy striding with his hands in his pockets, looking Muggle, himself.

“Like there,” Malfoy said. “That cafe has an Extended space. The restaurant next to it has the same, and they share a patio dining area in the alley behind. On the other side of the alley are a number of shops with Disillusioned sections. There are lots of neighborhoods like this around the city. The front ends are non-magical, but they overlap in the alleys. There are some purely magical vendors down the alley, as well.”

“That’s really interesting,” Harry said.

After that, Malfoy had nothing more to add. He strode on, gazing at the shops across the street.

Harry didn’t know what to make of the silence between them. He kept expecting Malfoy to bring up last night, to continue the teasing, to offer up more unkind suggestions for career possibilities now that they were alone. But Malfoy didn’t seem inclined to say anything.

“I left because I wanted to,” Harry said, and even to himself he sounded surly.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter.”

“The Aurors. I thought it was time to try something new with my life.”

“That’s very nice for you.”

Harry frowned and pushed his free hand into his pocket. “So why baking? Some deep-seated need to take your frustrations out on something that won’t hit back?”

“I like making bread. It’s calming.”

Malfoy was making this extremely difficult for him.

“Here we are,” Malfoy said, and turned down the alley to the Apparition point.

They stopped next to the skip, which emitted a mixture of sweet and rotten smells today.

Malfoy turned to face Harry, which was unexpected and startling after he’d cooly dismissed Harry for most of the walk. Malfoy’s eyes _were_ rather grey, Harry noted inexplicably. And Malfoy didn’t look completely untouched by the night before, after all. There were creases under his eyes.

“May I have your hand?”

“What?”

Malfoy’s cool mask of politeness pinched with impatience. “Your hand, Potter. If you’d like me to Apparate you to the library. Unless you’d like to take public transportation. In that case: have fun and I’ll meet you there in two hours.”

When Harry didn’t respond, Malfoy gave a shrug and began to turn.

“Wait,” Harry said. He scowled, finished his drink, tossed it into the skip, and lifted his hand. 

Malfoy looked at it and then met Harry’s eyes, and a feeling of déjà vu struck Harry. He was eleven again, standing on the train. Before Harry could look too closely at the memory, Malfoy clasped Harry’s hand—his own was warm and a little moist—and then the feeling of Apparition hooked Harry around the gut and yanked him sideways.

***

As soon as Harry’s feet hit ground, he released Malfoy’s hand. He could still feel the warmth against his skin. He rubbed his palm against his trouser leg. Malfoy noticed but didn’t say anything, only gave him a once-over as if to check that he was intact and then turned and strolled down the alley.

This one was narrower and cleaner than the other. When they emerged onto the pavement outside, Harry saw they were in a part of the city with sleek office buildings and hotels.

Malfoy led him down mostly-empty paths, past car park entrances, the occasional cafe, and office lobbies to a multistory car park. It stood next to a crumbling building marked with “Condemned” signs and colorful graffiti.

Without breaking stride, Malfoy turned toward the car park and ducked under the chain and its “Private - No Trespassing” sign. Harry ducked after him.

“What the hell, Malfoy?”

It was mostly dark inside the structure. There were a few cars parked on the ground floor, though it had an abandoned feel. A chill ran up Harry’s spine.

“Where’s your sense of adventure gone, Potter?” Malfoy said, and reached for the handle of a door at the far side of the structure. He pushed down on it once, and then up, and then pushed it open.

“Welcome to Library Square,” he said.

Light flooded down into the courtyard beyond and gleamed off the leaves of trees and potted flowers and bushes and vines that climbed up the walls of the building toward the sun above. A fountain tinkled merrily in the center of the courtyard, though it was hardly audible under the din of voices, laughter, and music. Harry recognized strains of “You Should See Me in My Robes” by Billie Wixish.

“The actual library is downstairs,” Malfoy said. “This is one of the few dedicated magical shopping centers in the city.”

It reminded Harry of Diagon Alley only in the most oblique sense. It had some of the same off-beat energy, and was filled with the smells of herbs and woodsmoke and unidentifiable scents that reminded Harry of the Potions classroom. Owls, crows, and small hawks swooped into the courtyard, and they perched in the ceiling beams and along the handrails of the levels above. The people walking around could still have passed for Muggles on the street, albeit rather quirky ones. One woman passed wearing a green lace top in a leaf pattern that flowed like a robe; a tiny, colorful falcon sat on her shoulder.

“I buy my potion-making equipment here,” Malfoy said, gesturing to a shop as they passed. A display of small cauldrons had been set up outside; the words SALE spelled themselves out in yellow light above. Behind them, a Medieval-looking contraption loomed in the front window: a structure like a table surrounded by metal arms with hooks and graspers. Seeing Harry’s expression, Malfoy said, “It bottles potions for you. And I get my ingredients there,” he added as they passed the next shop. Pungent smells wafted out. “These two are owned by siblings.”

A bunch of tiny multicolored frogs leaped into the pathway, and Harry paused so they could pass. Two children playing by the fountain squealed at the sight of them and crouched down to watch them hop and bobble toward the fountain’s edge, where the frogs leaped to the lip of the fountain in a spray of color. The children laughed and thrust their hands out to catch the frogs (they didn’t succeed) or to help them. A couple of straggling frogs used their hands as a step up and disappeared over the edge of the fountain.

Malfoy watched with a peculiar smile on his face. He noticed Harry looking and raised his eyebrows.

They ducked under strings of lights and passed more shops brimming with stuffed toys blinking sleepy button eyes and clay masks that sang in chorus and suncatchers that shed their own illumination, reminding Harry of the colored light that had shone off Malfoy’s hair at the brewery.

Malfoy led him to a Muggle-seeming lift that took them down. And down. It reminded Harry a bit of descending into the Ministry, except when the doors dinged and opened, it deposited him and Malfoy into the lobby of the library.

The air here was cool and slightly stuffy and smelled of books. Harry wondered if Hermione had visited when she’d come. The enchanted ceiling showed a black night sky and ribbons of colored light—an aurora.

“Oh. Here,” Harry said, pulling the slip of paper Luna had given him from his pocket. He read the letters and numbers off. “Maybe we could ask at the desk?”

“Don’t bother,” Malfoy said. “If you’d please? Not all of us are library illiterate.”

“What?” Harry pulled his attention away from the circulation desk, where a staff member went quickly through a stack of books, stamping them for a patron. The magical tattoo of a flock of birds turned and coalesced and scattered again over their arm and neck. He turned back to Malfoy, who was holding a hand out, obviously waiting for the slip of paper. 

“Fine, if you can understand this,” he said, and handed Malfoy the slip.

Malfoy snorted and glanced at it, then slipped it into his own pocket. “Come on, then.” He waved at the person behind the counter, who glanced up from flipping through books to beam and wave back. The flock of birds burst across their face, dodging around their smile.

Malfoy led Harry down a wide curving set of stairs to another level, where a couple of goblins sat at the reference desk. That surprised Harry. He’d only ever seen goblins at Gringotts. These looked younger and were dressed in blazers and jumpers.

A man who looked like he could have been a uni student leaned over the counter to ask a question of one of the goblins. The goblin glanced at the piece of paper the man slid toward him, nodded, and spun in his swivel chair to pull a leather tome from a shelf behind him.

“Here, Potter,” Malfoy called in a whisper.

Harry joined him in the stacks.

“They aren’t fond of being stared at,” Malfoy said under his breath. He glanced at the slip of paper again. “Here.” He strode to the center of the aisle, stopped, and ran his finger over the books till he came to a thick blue spine. “This one.” He drew it out. _Magical Plant Illnesses of the Pacific Northwest_ , read the title.

“Is that it, then?” After hours spent in Luna’s library that morning, and the relatively long walk to the library, this seemed rather simple.

Malfoy gave him a look strikingly like Hermione. “There’s more than one book here on the subject, Potter. This”—he circled his finger in the air—“is the section on magical plant illnesses. If you start at that end at the top, I’ll start on this end at the bottom. If you went through Luna’s collection this morning, I hope you’d be able to remember at least some of the books she already has.”

Harry bristled at the order and at the implication that he didn’t have a working memory—and at the fact that Malfoy expected him to start with the tallest shelves—but once they settled into their search, Harry found that he quite enjoyed going through the stacks with him. Helping Luna earlier had been nice, but she’d left him to do the searching on his own. It was nice having someone nearby, even if it was Malfoy. Malfoy had a way of running his fingers over the spines and muttering. He complained about people putting books back in the wrong places, and swapped titles around a few times. Otherwise he worked quietly, pausing a couple times to ask Harry how he was coming along with his search. 

Harry found himself glancing frequently at Malfoy and jiggling his leg as he flipped through books. “How are these?” he asked when they met in the middle of the bookcase. To Harry’s surprise, he’d actually gone through more of the books than Malfoy had, but that may have been because Malfoy had spent time flipping through indices and poring over the pages. Meanwhile, Harry had picked the books that looked more impressive—the older books, those that were dense with text and large words, and those with authors that had long strings of letters after their names.

Malfoy considered Harry’s handful of books, nodded, and added them to his own short stack.

“There are tables over this way,” he said, cast a charm on the books, and floated them down the aisle to an empty table beyond.

Harry thought Malfoy might sit down to go through the books as Luna had, but he cast a Privacy Charm over the table before taking Harry to another aisle.

“Might be something here, too. Worth looking,” he muttered.

This was how Harry found himself going through stacks of aging scrolls, monographs, and journals. The smell of old paper reminded Harry of going through Grimmauld Place. Harry had to spend more time with these—unpeeling nearly-transparent sheets of parchment, unfurling brittle scrolls carefully (“Want to see a murderous librarian? Break one of those”), and deciphering the looping script of ancient wizards. He sat in the aisle near Malfoy, tapping his foot against the floor until Malfoy snapped, “Will you _stop_ that?”

Harry rolled his eyes but stilled his foot. He reached for a small leather-bound box with a latch that required a gentle Unlocking Charm to open. The lid sprang open, and the sight of letters inside of it triggered a memory of Sirius’s collection in the attic.

“Oh!” he breathed.

Malfoy looked up. “What, did a book bite you?”

“No…” Harry stared down at the letters, dazed. It was obviously a completely different set, but Harry could have been kneeling in the attic again, unfolding Lupin’s letter.

In tones of awe, Malfoy said, “Potter. Is there a ghost only you can see?”

“No. It’s nothing. Just. Reminded me of something.” Heat rose in his face.

Malfoy stared at him with fascination. “I have never seen you that red before.”

Harry clicked the lid of the box shut and shoved it back onto the shelf. “Well, get a good look, Malfoy. I don’t blush for just anyone.”

“Apparently just for old books. You _are_ one kinky bastard.” He flipped a page. “Does Hermione know what you do to her collection when she’s not looking?”

“I make sure to cast a Scourgify after,” Harry deadpanned.

Malfoy let out a surprised laugh.

***

They brought their motley collection of scrolls and journals to the table to add to the books already there, and Malfoy sorted the materials into small piles that appeared to make sense to him. Harry was reminded again of Hermione, but it was so uniquely _Malfoy_ , too. The little frown of concentration. The meticulousness of the piles. The unconscious refinement with which he moved. 

Harry didn’t realize he was tap, tap, tapping his fingers until grey eyes flicked up to meet his stare. 

“What is _with_ you?” Malfoy said. “Are you constitutionally unable to sit still?”

Harry flattened his hand against the table. He wanted to have a retort, but the truth was, he felt quite restless, more restless than usual. He realized he was jiggling his leg again and stilled that, too. 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “You had that dirty chai.”

“And?” Harry said, defensively. 

“And it has a double shot of espresso.”

Oh. Now that Harry thought about it, he did feel rather caffeinated.

Malfoy sighed. “Here,” he said, pushing a pile toward Harry. “Can you put your energy to use and do a search for Brownish Blight, Sickle Leaf, and Withering Waste? Have you used the Advanced Search Charm?”

Harry shook his head “no.”

“Right. It goes like this.” Malfoy raised his wand and made a smooth movement. “ _Quaero_ ‘Sickle Leaf.’”

Harry recognized the charm from earlier, when Luna had used it. Where Luna’s casting was unconsciously graceful in a light way—almost as if an afterthought—Malfoy’s own casting was deliberately fluid, like a dancer who had practiced his movements so much they seemed natural. There was a contained power in that one spell. The pages of the book in front of him fluttered and fell open.

“Potter.”

“Huh?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. “Here, see?” He pointed to where the paper had dimpled under the phrase that he had searched for.

“That’s a good spell,” Harry heard himself say. “Could have used that in school.”

Malfoy sniffed. He pulled his own small pile of books toward himself and began to cast.

Harry watched from the top corner of his vision. He opened the next book in the pile Malfoy had pushed toward him. He’d already forgotten the terms Malfoy had asked him to search for. He glanced at the page with its dimpled text. ‘Sickle Leaf.’ Right.

He cast the spell. The pages of the book in front of him flipped back and forth aggressively before snapping open and creasing deeply under the words.

“Really, Potter.”

“It’s my first time,” he muttered.

He marked the pages as he found them and then set them aside for Malfoy, who took notes in a small cloth-bound notebook. Malfoy didn’t keep a running commentary like Luna had, but the experience was surprisingly companionable anyway. 

Every so often, Malfoy licked a finger when flipping through the pages. Harry had got used to seeing Malfoy in constant movement in the coffee shop. It was interesting seeing him here. His gaze skimmed across the page and snapped back to his notebook; sometimes his hand moved, writing, while his eyes were still fixed on the book. Occasionally, he pushed a chunk of his fringe away from his eyes. A couple of times, Malfoy glanced up, but Harry made himself busy marking pages.

Harry’s thoughts drifted back to Sirius’s box of letters and Remus’s messily penned words. 

Remus. And Sirius. _Together_.

And why should that be the thing that most stuck out in his mind about the letters? It wasn’t like— He was perfectly okay with Ginny and Luna. He was happy for them. Thrilled. Same with Dean and Seamus. He’d never felt uncomfortable around those two, didn’t even mind when they threw ribald jokes his way. And clearly, whatever had existed between Sirius and Remus had happened a long time ago, and had happened before Tonks, so it wasn’t like it should be _weird_ , not really.

Just—it made him uncomfortable, anyway. Inexplicably. He desperately wanted to go through the rest of those letters. But he was also afraid of what he’d find.

Remus. And Sirius.

Malfoy flipped another page. “Are you done with that pile yet, Potter?”

“What? Oh. Yeah. Just. One more.” He marked the last book and slid the pile to Malfoy’s side of the table.

“Thanks,” Malfoy said without looking up. His hand scribbled as he spoke. He reached for the next book with the other.

Harry coughed.

Malfoy glanced at him. Frowned. Put the pen in his teeth. Opened the book and placed it atop the other so the passages aligned. Took the pen from his mouth.

Harry couldn’t look away.

“So what do you think of Oregon so far?” Malfoy asked.

Harry blinked. “Uh. It’s beautiful.”

“Enjoying the farm?”

“Um. Yes.”

Harry wondered at Malfoy’s motivation, but Malfoy was busy making notations, and his tone was mild, lightly distracted. He seemed—by all appearances—to be making polite conversation.

“Luna is going to hook you up with job opportunities, is she?”

Ah—and there it was. Harry saw where this was going now. He braced himself for repartee.

“That’s the plan,” he said mildly.

Malfoy closed one of the books in front of him. “That’s nice of her.”

Harry frowned. Maybe this wasn’t going where he thought it was. Cautiously, he said, “I guess. I mean. The last thing I need is to follow some wizards around—or Muggles, knowing Luna.”

Malfoy glanced up at that. “What’s wrong with non-magical jobs?”

Harry was nonplussed. He didn’t understand the slight defensiveness in Malfoy’s tone—then belatedly realized that Malfoy’s own job was technically Muggle.

“There’s nothing wrong with them,” Harry said, his own tone a bit defensive. He scrunched his face up. “I just…don’t want to.”

Malfoy smiled faintly. He flipped a few more pages, made a note. “What, is the Saviour not good enough for a common job? Must it all be heroism or bust?”

“No!”

“She has a point, though. You’ve only known fighting in school and since then. Hurrah, so you’ve quit the Aurors.” Malfoy paused in his scholarly pursuits to softly clap his hands. “Do you even know what you want to do with yourself?”

“Merlin, Malfoy. You sound like everyone else. No, I don’t know. But who does?”

“I do. I enjoy what I do.”

“Well, good for you.” He paused, felt a weight settle over him like a heavy blanket. “Maybe being an Auror is all I’ve ever wanted to do. Maybe I’m not made for anything else.”

“Then you wouldn’t have left,” Malfoy said without looking up from the page.

“I like being an Auror. I didn’t like the politics. I didn’t like the paperwork.”

“All right.”

That was it. Malfoy closed the books in front of him, reached for another, and opened to one of Harry’s markers of ripped paper.

“Anyway,” Harry said. “There’s no rush. It’s not like I can’t support myself. Maybe I’ll travel for a bit. That’s what Parkinson is doing, right?”

“In the meantime, you’ll be letting Luna down.”

Harry tilted his head back and groaned. No, he couldn’t let her down. She was so excited to connect him with different experiences.

“If it’s really that much of a trial, I’ll teach you how to bake.”

Harry looked down slowly. “What?”

“Tell Luna you want to learn how to bake. I’ll offer to let you shadow.”

Malfoy’s face was completely straight, his eyes serious. Harry regarded him for a long moment.

“Then I…what? Skive off?”

“Or I can actually teach you how to bake,” Malfoy said, dryly.

“Huh,” Harry said.

Malfoy went back to writing.

“Huh,” Harry said again, a few minutes later. “That…could work.”


	11. Chapter 11

No one told Harry that bakers start their work at four in the morning, so when he startled awake in the middle of the night, he was confused.

“Harry.”

Something jabbed him in the face again. He let out a cry, batted it away, sat bolt upright.

“Harry. Harry. It’s time to wake up. Harry.”

Ginny’s voice, coming from a small paper bird that continued to smack his face.

“What the _fuck_!” Harry made a drunken grab for the paper and managed to catch it on the third go.

“Malfoy expects you at four at the shop. Enjoy your day!”

The paper fizzled in Harry’s hand. He yelped and jerked his hand back, but there was no heat. A fine black ash poured to the duvet and disappeared.

He blinked into the darkness, heart racing, still groggy and half out of sorts—but fully awake thanks to his experience as an Auror and, before that, always being on edge during the war, ready to wake at a moment’s notice.

He cast a Tempus Charm. 3:43.

“What the actual…” He was awake but confused. Was Ginny playing some kind of prank on him? Then, he vaguely remembered Malfoy mentioning something during their conversation at the brewery about early hours.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned. He flopped back in bed and stared up at the ceiling. Malfoy could have _told_ him. He had been there talking to Harry, had discussed other details with him. They’d had a long conversation. And nowhere in there had he mentioned that Harry would need to wake up in the middle of the night.

It wasn’t like Harry had to go, and it’d taken him forever to fall asleep, no thanks to that chai drink. He could just throw back a Sleeping Potion and sleep in tomorrow. But that was probably what Malfoy wanted.

So Harry rose to the challenge. Literally.

He got up, cast a half-hearted _Lumos_ , and grabbed the first clean clothes that came to hand. He looked down at himself and realized how mismatched and disorganized he was in an orange Cannons t-shirt, blue button-down, and black jeans. 

“Fuck it.”

He looked up in time to intercept another paper bird flying toward him with singular purpose. He shot a quick charm at it, and it disintegrated mid-air.

He Apparated to a little alley close to Malfoy’s shop and walked across the street. Though it was summer, it was cool enough that Harry cast a Warming Charm.

The windows of the coffee shop were dark. Harry’s heart sank as he approached. Ginny with her practical jokes. He was going to strangle her.

But as he got closer, he heard the distinct click of the lock. Harry hesitated and then opened the door. The little bell rang cheerfully into the dark.

“Malfoy?” Harry called. He let the door close behind him.

“Shout a little louder, why don’t you?” said Malfoy’s voice near his ear.

Harry yelped and turned, but the shop was empty.

“I’m in the back, you ass.”

“Wanker,” Harry muttered. He made his way across the shop, stepping around the tables with their upturned chairs. Lights from the street illuminated the menu board and the empty counter. The smell of coffee was less aggressive than it was during the day.

Harry still didn’t see where Malfoy could be. The back of the shop was just as dark as the front.

Then he walked through the threshold into a hell of bright white light.

“Ah! Shit! A little warning would have been nice.”

“Oh, please,” Malfoy said.

Harry cracked his hand away from his eyes. Still bright. He gave it another moment and then tenderly peeled his hands away. The kitchen was alive with light, every lamp turned on. He glanced behind him. The front of the shop was dark, barely visible, illuminated only by the light of a street lamp beyond the front door.

Harry didn’t have the chance to ask Malfoy what charm he used to block the kitchen’s light from the front of the shop. He turned back to find Malfoy giving him a once-over. Malfoy waved his wand.

Harry squawked. He looked down to see that his outfit had been Transfigured into a white chef’s jacket. His hand flew to his head, and he pulled off a pleated, fluffy hat.

“What the actual fuck, Malfoy?”

Malfoy tucked his wand into his pocket. “It offended my sensibilities. And anyway, if you’re going to be my employee for the day, I get a say in your uniform.”

Harry glared. “I am not your employee.”

“Semantics.” Malfoy unbuttoned one of his cuffs and began to roll the sleeve up. “Have you ever baked bread, Potter?”

“Uh.”

Malfoy finished rolling the one cuff up to his elbow. Vaguely, Harry wondered why Malfoy had bothered with a long-sleeved shirt to start with, but the thought drifted away almost as soon as it had formed. Malfoy’s fingers were long and deft. He released the button of the other cuff and rolled that sleeve back next. Harry caught sight of sinuous black ink on the inside of his forearm and felt a jolt of alarm. Not for the first time, he noted that it looked different than he remembered seeing on Snape; something about it was lighter, less distinct in a way he couldn’t identify.

Malfoy snapped his fingers. “Bread, Potter. Have you made any?”

Harry scowled. “Of course I’ve made bread.” He didn’t add that it had been literally twenty years since he had last made any. Petunia had taught him so she could use him to help her make loaves for visits from the stuffy businessmen and their wives who Vernon was trying to impress. 

Malfoy looked skeptical. He pulled his wand out and lifted it, the movement more elegant, somehow, with his bared arms. He flicked his wrist, and a tub of flour sailed onto one of the large work tables. A smaller tub followed after it. Implements flew from their hooks and shelves.

“Most modern non-magical bakers use machines to do much of the work of baking bread, including kneading.” He sniffed. “It’s more efficient—if you don’t care for flavor. Here, we make our bread by hand.”

Malfoy pointed his wand toward the ovens along the wall, and their doors opened. With a pop, flames sprang up inside of them.

“We also use a sourdough starter. Almost all of our baked goods are made with sourdough as a base. How sour they are depends on how long they prove.”

The doors of a large cupboard opened, and trays of dough flew out one after the other to line up on the table. With several swishes of Malfoy’s wand, a glowing Tempus Charm appeared above each of the ovens, showing 0:00. Several more appeared above the trays of dough, showing numbers that looked like they represented how many hours the dough had been sitting. The amount was different for each tray.

“It’s a delicate operation. A well-timed and well-oiled machine. A dance. A science. A craft. And it starts by putting yesterday’s dough into the ovens. Each of these trays has a Stasis Charm over it. The charms kick in to stop the bread from proving any longer after a certain point. This allows me to make dough the day beforehand without the dough developing past the stage I’d like. You’ll need to take the Stasis Charms off of each tray before you put it in the oven.”

Malfoy spoke as he walked around to the side of the table with the tubs of dry ingredients lined up, leaving the trays of dough. It took a moment for Harry to understand.

“You want me to put these in the oven?”

“Is this task beyond your capabilities?”

“No.” Harry narrowed his eyes and regarded the trays. He lifted the Stasis Charms from each of them. The trays looked hefty, and the ovens looked hot, so he used a Levitation Charm to lift each and move it into place.

“Good job,” Malfoy said.

Harry felt a pang of warmth even as he bristled at the casually condescending tone.

“Is that it?” he asked, cautiously. That seemed deceptively easy.

“Now set a Tempus for 25 minutes. And the next trays are there and should be ready to go in.”

It took a moment for Harry to find the trays in question. Meanwhile, Malfoy Summoned dry ingredients from their containers and cast weighing charms and set them to mix in bowls. Harry pulled out the trays and figured out the charms that let him see the amount of time that the dough had been allowed to rise until the Stasis Charm kicked in, which made him feel good.

The good feeling didn’t last long, though. In a moment, Malfoy was directing him to cast a new set of Tempus Charms and arrange the trays into one of the ovens in a way that involved moving the ones that were already inside in a particular order. Soon, Harry was hot and sweaty, Levitating trays in small increments and wondering why Malfoy didn’t do this on his own if he was going to tell Harry how to do it. Meanwhile, Malfoy measured liquid ingredients in the air and directed the floating balls of water and oil into the set of bowls.

Then the Tempus Charms were going off and Harry had to move the first trays out of the oven, followed by the next, and the next. In between pulling the trays out, Malfoy directed him to tap on the loaves. Harry thought Malfoy was joking at first, but he really did want Harry to Levitate each of the loaves and tap on the bottom. Harry didn’t know what he was listening for, but Malfoy seemed satisfied with what Harry described, and he had Harry move each of the finished loaves onto a rack. Soon, the rack was half-full of cooling loaves, and the kitchen smelled of fresh-baked bread, and Malfoy had several rectangles of dough on the large work table.

The rectangles of dough, by themselves, seemed non-threatening enough. But within minutes, Harry was involved in the hell that was baking fresh croissants.

Pats of butter. Rolling pins. Measuring charms. Malfoy directing him exactly how to fold the dough before rolling it again, and stopping him every time he rolled in the wrong direction, or unevenly, or too few times—until Harry wondered why he hadn’t wanted Luna to choose a job shadowing opportunity for him. Surely anything was better than Malfoy ordering him to cut blocks of butter _just so_ and layer them on sheets of dough _like this_ and “for Merlin’s sake, Harry, don’t _bully_ the dough, it’s done nothing to harm you; wrap it in a Cooling Stasis and set it aside for twenty minutes to rest before you try rolling it out again, _Circe_ you like manhandling things.”

In the end, they had trays and trays of rolled triangles of dough that Malfoy insisted had “perfect lamination,” but Harry didn’t care, he only wanted to throttle Malfoy.

Those went into the oven in a dizzying pattern that Harry was just starting to get a hang of. He had just maneuvered the last of the trays into the oven when Malfoy cast a Tempus above him. It was already nearly six in the morning.

“Fifteen minutes behind,” Malfoy said.

“What? What else is there to put in?” Harry mopped his forehead with his sleeve.

“Cookies.”

“You’re taking the piss,” Harry said because, if nothing else, the word “cookies” sounded bizarre coming out of Malfoy’s mouth.

But Malfoy was already measuring a new set of ingredients.

“I’ll need the chocolate chips.”

“The what?”

“The chocolate chips,” Malfoy said. He looked up irritably from the floating mass of flour in front of him. “My magic is good, Potter, but I doubt even Merlin could measure dry ingredients and Summon things at the same time.”

So began Malfoy’s next task for Harry: to Summon things as he called on them. Except Malfoy snapped the names so fast that Harry didn’t hear half of them correctly, so when he tried to Summon them, nothing came—or the wrong things zoomed happily into his waiting hand, and he had to levitate them back or Scourgify a mess he’d made while trying to keep up with Malfoy’s demands. 

His frustration built until something in him snapped—and suddenly he was on the Quidditch field with Malfoy again. This was a challenge, and Harry wasn’t going to lose—not to Malfoy.

He cast a charm he’d learned as an Auror to repeat words—distinctly and clearly in his ears—as they were spoken. With this, and with the realization that Malfoy was pronouncing some things with a distinct American accent, Harry called the next thing Malfoy asked for: something called “shortening.” Harry cast the Summoning Charm so forcefully, the objects around the tub rattled as it flew from its spot, and it zoomed toward Harry. Harry snatched it from the air and smiled triumphantly at Malfoy.

Malfoy accepted the tub from Harry calmly, then asked for the next thing. And the next.

Ingredients and implements flew from their places almost as fast Malfoy asked for them, and Harry was there to catch them or direct them to set down next to Malfoy or—in a few cases—to orbit him like tiny moons until Malfoy looked up with a huff and plucked them out of the air.

“Some things never change,” Harry heard distinctly in his ear, repeated by the charm.

“Excuse me?”

Malfoy looked up from the little circles of biscuit—cookie—dough. “Excuse me? I need the powdered sugar.”

At last, the stream of demands came to an end, and Harry turned—exhilarated, ready for the next—to find Malfoy standing before a table full of biscuit trays. Brown ones and chocolate chip ones and white lumpy ones and biscuits decorated with icing and colors and sweets.

“Are we done?”

“Potter. A baker’s work is never done,” Malfoy said, dryly.

Harry had got that sense. And that should have intimidated him, probably—work that never ended—but instead it filled him with a sense of rightness.

“What next?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened slightly, then his expression settled into something cool again. “These go into the oven. Then we start dough for the next batches of bread.”

This time, Malfoy levitated the trays into the ovens himself, glancing at the large clock above them as he did so and casting a number of Tempus Charms to float over each. The trays went in smoothly, as if they were good friends settling into place together in a well-rehearsed play. It hit Harry at that moment, watching Malfoy’s look of concentration and the fine shimmer of sweat on his face, that Malfoy did this every morning. Surely he had someone to help him, though? Perhaps another wizard or witch?

The door to the oven had barely been shut before Malfoy was clearing away the mess from making biscuits and calling a number of new ingredients. 

“So. You say you’ve made bread. I assume you mean yeast bread?”

“I mean—yeah, yeast was involved.”

Malfoy pursed his lips. “Did you use a starter?”

“Yeah. I started with flour.” A smile crept into Harry’s voice.

Malfoy took a deep, slow breath. “All right. So. There are key differences between sourdough and yeast-based bread. One is that, for sourdough, you need a starter—an awful fermented flour baby that you have to feed every day. Which would be this.” Malfoy placed his hand on a sealed jar. “We care for this horrid child with love because it gives us our delicious bread.”

Harry snorted.

Malfoy ignored him. “The next steps are likely similar to what you learned. But I doubt you’ve ever used the charms that I do. Because I developed them. They simulate hand-mixing. Otherwise, using charms to mix would be no better than using a non-magical appliance.”

He showed Harry the charms he’d created to measure and mix the ingredients: flour, water, salt, oil. Harry resisted rolling his eyes at Malfoy’s pretentiousness, but couldn’t help the flutter of excitement he felt as the ingredients gathered and weighed themselves and began to mix midair as they lowered into the bowls.

“One part of the process I haven’t found a charm to replace is kneading by hand. In fact, we don’t _knead_ here. We fold. Like so.”

They dusted flour over the tabletop and tipped the mixed dough onto it. The flour barely showed on Malfoy’s pale skin, but was obvious on Harry’s. Malfoy talked Harry through the folding process he used, which he’d apparently learned from a fifth-generation baker in France. It introduced more air into the dough for a _better interior crumb_. 

Malfoy stopped Harry frequently to criticize his form. 

“Of course, you like to manhandle things. This bread needs to be seduced, not grappled.” 

Harry’s face heated. “Merlin, Malfoy. And you were asking me what I do to books when no one’s looking?”

Malfoy smirked and continued his explanation. Actually, the process was not too different from what Harry had learned from Petunia, who had been rather particular about her baked goods. Malfoy kept a close eye on Harry as Harry folded his first batch of dough, but quickly went quiet when Harry got into the rhythm of it. Though he didn’t offer any verbal compliments, he cast frequent suspicious glances at Harry. Harry pulled back one corner of his mouth in a smile.

They worked for a while to the sounds of dough against the tabletop. Then Malfoy spelled the radio on, and the kitchen was filled with a lively violin melody. Harry bit back a comment about “seducing” the bread with romantic music.

After the first three balls of dough, Harry’s arms were beginning to ache, but Malfoy kept going strong. Harry’s gaze strayed to Malfoy’s hands—pulling, stretching, folding.

What kind of strength did he have in his arms if he did this every day?

Harry stumbled, folding the dough in the wrong direction and pushing too hard. He felt Malfoy’s disapproving look and reshaped the dough into a ball.

They paused to take trays out of the oven and put a new set in.

They had half the dough folded, and the timed Stasis Charms set on the individual balls, when Harry’s stomach rumbled loudly.

Malfoy shot him an accusing look. “Have you eaten yet?”

Harry scowled. “Because I usually wake at half past three to consume a whole fry-up.”

Malfoy glanced at the clock. Harry was surprised to see that it was approaching opening time. 

“We’ll take a break.”

“I’m fine, Malfoy,” Harry said, but was secretly relieved when Malfoy cast several preservation and protection spells over their baking setup.

Apparently, “taking a break” involved more baking: into each cup of a muffin tin, Malfoy placed croissant dough, a slice of bacon, and a raw egg. While that was in the oven, Harry helped him clean up the mess in the kitchen and load the cases in the shop with the cooled bread, biscuits, and croissants.

They ate the egg and bacon croissants in the kitchen’s little break area, leaning against the counter. From the corner of his eye, Harry watched the steam rise from Malfoy’s breakfast croissant as Malfoy chewed, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Malfoy held the croissant neatly with the tips of his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed from the morning of baking. The sweat on his skin had dried, but he had a glow about him.

The croissant was delicious—flaky and moist—but Harry had trouble swallowing his next bite. His stomach twisted, and for a moment, he wondered if the food didn’t agree with it.

Malfoy popped the rest of the croissant in his mouth and licked his thumb and first two fingers. He met Harry’s gaze, lips shiny from butter, and Harry realized that the feeling in his stomach had nothing to do with food.

He was fucked.


	12. Chapter 12

Late morning found Harry back at the farm in time to help Ginny and Luna make lunch. Or, more accurately, to bring a handful of tomatoes in from the garden and then slouch into one of the chairs in the kitchen.

“You’re awful quiet,” Ginny said, nudging his foot with her toe. Harry could hear the smirk in her voice.

“Shut up. I’m tired, as you well know.” Too tired, in fact, to tease her for saying “ _awful_ quiet.”

Ginny snickered.

Luna said, “Did you enjoy your morning with Draco?”

“ _God_. Sure. Yeah. Because I love abuse.”

“Is baking not for you, then?”

“Not if it involves waking up at 3:30 every morning.”

“It doesn’t have to, but it sometimes does,” Luna said. “Especially for somewhere that serves breakfast.”

“Do you have any potions for relaxing muscles? Because I’m going to need it tomorrow.”

Ginny snickered harder. Harry ignored her. Luna slipped off to get him something and Harry continued to lounge, his eyes closed, his hands covering his face. He couldn’t get the image of Malfoy out of his head. Malfoy, smirking at him. Malfoy, laughing. Swirling things around the kitchen with a graceful wave of his wand. And his arms. His hands. The dough.

Harry was concentrating so hard on trying _not_ to want to be the dough that he startled at Luna’s gentle touch on his arm.

“Oh. Hey. Cheers,” he said. “What is this?” He looked at the little tin she’d handed him.

“A pain reliever for muscles. Rub it in over your arms.”

He took a sniff. “Smells…herbal.”

Luna smiled. “You’ve got a good nose.”

He dabbed his fingers into it and rubbed it over his arms, which only served to remind him of Malfoy’s forearms and the tone his muscles must have had. He made a frustrated noise in his throat.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ginny asked.

“Nothing,” he said, and screwed the lid back onto the salve.

He sat and half-dozed—though he was mostly only pretending to doze—as he watched Luna and Ginny move around the kitchen, making lunch. The way Ginny looked at Luna, expression softening and lighting up.

He didn’t have much of an appetite despite his eventful morning—the pastry he’d had earlier had done it for him—so he picked through half the salad and soup and bread that Ginny dished out for him.

Because he didn’t have much to say, and because they seemed to sense he needed quiet, Ginny and Luna talked between themselves about the farm and people they knew that they had seen recently. It seemed like such a familiar rhythm; it had to be how they talked when no one else was around.

Afterward, Harry helped bring the plates into the kitchen.

“I’ll get these, Harry. Don’t worry,” Luna said. He didn’t have it in him to argue that he didn’t mind and could use something to occupy him. Also, Luna had that kind look on her face, and so he couldn’t do anything but thank her and wander up to his room. That is, the _guest_ room. Not his room.

Harry tried in vain to nap. His internal clock was too confused between London time and Oregon time and from waking in the middle of the night. That, and whenever he settled down, his thoughts returned to that morning. Eventually, he ambled back downstairs, heavy but awake.

He found Ginny where she was fixing the side of one of the smaller barns.

“Captain hit it one too many times.”

“Captain?”

“The buck,” Ginny said, indicating a buff goat a hundred feet off with long curving horns. Harry looked at the dented building and gave a low whistle when he realized what Ginny meant.

“With his head?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll help,” he said. Ginny, unlike Luna, did not protest, only grunted when he lent his magic. She looked perfectly capable of doing it on her own. He struggled to keep up with her, in fact, but if Ginny noticed—or if she thought he was hindering her own efforts—she didn’t say anything. Steadily, the dent straightened out of the wall until the wall looked restored.

“Until next time,” Ginny deadpanned, eyeing Captain.

On the other side of the fence, the goat chewed grass and stared back at her with his strangely shaped pupils. Harry leaned heavily on the fence post to watch him.

Ginny whacked his arm with her wand. “Come on. It’s hurting me to look at you. Have you had any caffeine yet?”

“Three cups of coffee.”

“Not enough.”

Luna was already in the kitchen, pouring a glass of cucumber water.

“Mind if we make some tea, love?” Ginny asked, and pressed a kiss to the side of Luna’s head as she reached for the kettle.

Harry reclaimed his kitchen seat while Ginny levitated the cups and the tea leaves around and Luna dug through the fridge for a plate of cheesecake.

Maybe because he was so tired, and maybe because he had spent so much time in their kitchen the last few days, he felt as if he’d slipped into a pleasant time continuum in which Luna and Ginny were forever stepping around each other in the kitchen, a bit like a dance, chatting and trading casual kisses and fond looks.

Ginny took the teapot and a couple of cups and the cheesecake and Harry out to a little table in the shade of the garden. The flowers looked motionless, but if Harry stared at them for a few seconds, he saw the bees that rose from them and flew around each other to land in the next flower. They reminded him of Ginny and Luna in the kitchen.

“What’s it like being with Luna?”

Ginny shrugged as she poured tea for both of them. “She’s my size. She’s soft. I grew up with men and dated men, and with her there’s no sense of competition and no sense of needing to boost her ego. We match.”

Harry looked up from the flowers. “Did you feel in competition with me? What do you mean, you don’t need to boost her ego?”

Ginny gave him a bland smile. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

Harry gave a frustrated huff of breath, because it was Ginny and he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere with it. He took a drink of his tea and a bite of his cheesecake, and watched the bees continue their dance from flower to flower.

“You should do it,” Ginny said.

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you’re not sitting there thinking you’d like to suck some cock.”

Harry sloshed his tea. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“And you should do it.”

“What makes think— Why would I—”

“Please. Harry. I saw the way you looked at Oliver’s ass.”

“I—what?”

Ginny cut a piece of cheesecake with the side of her fork. “Have you never thought about it?”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again. 

That is. Of course he had _looked_ at Oliver’s arse. It’d been kind of hard not to, considering they’d been on the same Quidditch team. He’d seen Ron’s arse a fair number of times, too. Though, given the context of the current conversation, he wasn’t going to say _that_. 

“I…am going to stick more cheesecake in my mouth,” he said. 

The afternoon was lazy and dripped with sunlight. It shone through the leaves of the plants and gleamed off the wings of the crows that flew by overhead. Smells of lavender and herbs wafted up from the garden with the heat.

“Anyway,” he said. His heart was pounding too hard. It had to be the warmth. “I’m not sitting here thinking about—that—”

“Okay.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

“I was thinking about you and Luna dancing, like the bees.”

Ginny snorted into her teacup. She took a drink and looked off at the garden, but there was a little smile at the corner of her mouth.

Well, he _had_ been thinking about bees. He frowned, and finished his cake, and watched the insects hover around the flowers.


	13. Chapter 13

Luna found Harry watching the sunset that evening. She looked especially soft under the pink-orange sky, and had a bloodstain on the front of her tunic—from feeding the Thestrals, Harry assumed. 

“So you said you didn’t like the baking?”

Harry felt his face flame. “The actual baking? It was okay.”

“But you didn’t like waking so early.”

“Not a fan.”

Also, he didn’t think he could handle kneading dough with Malfoy again. He was still rather confused about his feelings on that—and the conversation with Ginny hadn’t helped.

Luna didn’t seem to notice Harry’s discomfort. She settled next to Harry on the grass. “Not wanting to wake that early is understandable. A baker’s schedule is not for everyone. Don’t worry, though. I’ve got something else I think you’ll enjoy.”

“Oh. That’s not—” _Necessary_ , he was going to say, but Luna turned a glowing smile on him, and he said, “You know what? That sounds great. Thank you, Luna.”

“You’re going to love this,” Luna said.

And so, the next afternoon, Harry found himself heading to a small hat shop in one of the wizarding alleys Malfoy had told him about.

The alley bustled with activity. Harry wended his way along the narrow path between magical folk, tables and chairs, street vendors, and the occasional potted plant that tried to bite him. In one recessed doorway, a busker waved her wand like a conductor while a violin played itself. Sweet smells of baking wafted from the open door of the cafe next to her, reminding Harry of Malfoy. He passed a clothing shop with racks of waistcoats and robes, a small bespoke wand maker advertising unusual woods and cores, a magical antique shop, and a bookshop. Strains of music drifted from a shop selling wizarding wireless sets next door.

Above, strings of lights criss-crossed between the building walls, along with bits of brightly colored cloth. Birds dashed around and bickered in the windowsills above—owls and crows and birds with blue plumage that shrieked.

Of all the establishments not to make use of Wizard Space, the hat shop seemed to need it the most. It was one of the smaller shops in the alley, barely wide enough for Harry to fit his shoulders into. It reminded him vaguely of Luna’s basement library, except instead of books, Harry was pressed in on all sides by stacks and stacks of hats: hats that greeted him, that sparkled, that gave off warmth or the faint smell of sandalwood. A number of hats featured animal parts—or even whole animals, like Neville’s grandmother’s vulture hat had. To Harry’s relief, there were no actual vulture hats, although he wasn’t sure hats with squirrels or songbirds were any better. (“All creatures humanely sourced” read a sign.) There were hats with mechanical animals, too, and outlandish-looking brass spectacles.

“Hello?” he called into the maze.

“Hello?” echoed a wooden parrot head.

“Keep it down!” muttered a hat nearby.

From deeper inside the shop, a muffled voice said, “Hello?” Harry hoped it was human, and he squeezed through the shop towards it.

The narrow aisle widened into a little room with a number of mirrors perched on the shelves and a small upholstered chair that looked like it was for customers.

“Over here!” the voice said from beyond one of the cases.

Harry peered around it to find another little alcove, this one smaller and brimming with felt, needles, feathers, leather cord, and tools. A desk had been crammed against the wall. A slight man with bottle-cap spectacles and no hair sat at it. He blinked at Harry with a perfect lack of recognition.

“Hey. I’m Harry. Harry Potter? Luna called and asked if I could, er, help you around the shop today?”

“Right! Harry! Good to meet you. I’m Sophus. You can call me Sophie, though.”

He unfolded from his place at the desk. Standing, he came up to Harry’s shoulder. He looked like he fit perfectly in the cramped confines of the hat shop, as if it had grown around him, or he had shrunk to fit it. Harry, however, felt oversized and cramped. He wondered if this was how Hagrid always felt.

“Let me show you around,” Sophie said, snagging a coffee mug from the desk. He cradled it in his hands as he showed Harry each cramped corner of the shop and what kinds of hats were kept there.

Sophie was kind but clearly just waking up. He yawned hugely between sentences and took deep pulls from his mug. The strong, burnt smell of the coffee filled the cramped space, and Harry tried not to wrinkle his nose. Maybe it was that he’d spent so much time in Malfoy’s shop over the last few days. He was sure that, a week ago, the smell wouldn’t have bothered him. It would have just been coffee to him, like all the rest.

After the tour, and another mug of scorched coffee, Sophie showed Harry how to make hats. His voice settled into a lecturing cadence that was not quite a Binns-level drone, but—paired with his yawning—it had _Harry_ falling into a doze. Every couple of minutes, Harry dug a nail into his thigh to wake back up.

The process of hat-making, itself, was actually more interesting than Harry had thought it would be—that is, slightly more interesting than watching a Flobberworm eat lettuce—but Sophie didn’t let Harry try any of the techniques, only moved from demonstrating one to the next. A few times, he paused to assist a customer. In one case, the customer purchased a hat that needed to be refitted.

“A non-magical hatter would have to reshape a felt hat with steam, but we’ve got charms,” Sophie told Harry.

He demonstrated the charm in question—his wand movement too swift for Harry to make out the pattern—and moved on with fitting the customer.

When she was gone, he rearranged some of the hats on display and then abruptly asked Harry if he would like to try his hand at making a hat.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Harry said, perking up at the prospect of actually doing something.

Sophie invited him to sit at the desk and handed him an undecorated hat, a spool of ribbon, needles, and a feather. Then he wandered off with an inventory scroll and a quill, leaving Harry to his own devices. Within minutes, Harry had dropped the spool, chased the unraveling ribbon across the floor, jabbed himself with the huge needle, and snapped the feather. Harry also managed to crumple the brim of the hat.

Upon returning, Sophie clucked at the sight. “Well, not everyone is cut out for the fine craft of hat-making.”

After that, he put Harry on customer duty.

Harry didn’t mind. He stood near the entrance of the shop, watching the passersby and listening to the hats mutter. Occasionally, he stepped aside for a customer to wander in or out.

While Sophie was in the back of the shop taking a phone call, a customer in “a rather big hurry” approached Harry with a bowler hat that needed to be refitted. “Er,” Harry said, before attempting to recreate the Fitting Charm. He miscast it—making the hat too large—but got it right on the second try, just in time for Sophie to arrive from the back of the shop and ring the smiling customer up.

“First sale!” Sophie said, and clapped Harry on the arm.

As a reward, he showed Harry how to swap the hats around so they didn’t get bored on one shelf. The next half hour found Harry rearranging hats, who were never satisfied with how he placed them.

“A quarter turn to the left,” said a particularly picky boater hat with a wide orange ribbon. “And just a tad to the right. No, no. Too far.”

“Well, well,” drawled a familiar voice behind Harry.

Harry froze, hands still grasping the brim of the hat, then turned. (“Excuse me,” the hat said. “We’re not done here?”)

“Malfoy.”

“This is an interesting surprise,” Malfoy said. He was dressed in a white linen shirt and dark blue jeans.

Harry scowled to counteract the swooping sensation in his stomach. “What are you doing here?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Shopping for a hat. Imagine my shock coming for a beret and finding you.”

“You knew where I’d be from Luna.”

“Really, Potter. Were you born that self-centered, or is it a side effect of the fame? One wonders.”

Malfoy’s tone was almost playful. Harry forced an even breath. “What kind of hat are you looking for?”

“A beret,” Malfoy enunciated. “But I’d also like to look at a homburg, if you don’t mind.”

Harry, who didn’t know one hat from the next, waved a hand at the shelves of hats. “Have at it.”

Malfoy sniffed and made a show of looking over each shelf while Harry stood aside, watching him hum and cluck and stroke his chin. Harry wanted to stuff one of the hats over his face.

“If you’d like,” Harry said through gritted teeth, “I can ask the shop owner if he has the hat you’re looking for.”

“No, that’s all right,” Malfoy said. “It’s right here.” He picked up a relatively shapeless round black hat. “Classic beret.” He placed it on his head and adjusted it in one of the little mirrors on the shelf. He turned to look at Harry, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat.

“Well?” Malfoy said.

“It’s, uh. It’s a hat.”

Malfoy snorted. “Brilliant sales pitch.”

“I try. Do you want that fitted?”

Malfoy was standing close enough that Harry could smell the scent of coffee coming from him—the scent of _good_ coffee, rich and almost chocolatey. Harry would have to stand a little closer to cast the Fitting Charm. He hoped Malfoy would say no. He wanted Malfoy to say yes.

“It’s a little loose, so yes.”

Right. “So. Um. Stand to face me. Thanks.”

A cold sweat broke out on Harry’s neck, although it wasn’t like he should be nervous to miscast on Malfoy. After all, the arse had come looking to embarrass him. It would serve him right for Harry to make the hat too tight on his head.

Harry cast the Fitting Charm and miraculously got it right on the first try. Malfoy raised his eyebrows slightly, which was his only acknowledgement of Harry’s success. He turned to look in the mirror again, made a minute adjustment to the hat’s placement on his head, then removed it.

He tried on many more hats.

Somewhere after the third, Harry began to have fun. Malfoy, voice drawling, seemed to enjoy modeling and preening. He looked good in almost all of the hats, even some of the truly awful ones, although a couple made Harry burst out in gales of laughter.

At one point, Sophie wandered over to praise Harry’s charm-work. He also complimented Malfoy (who was wearing a grey newsie cap at the time), which pleased Harry but also made him bristle.

Surprisingly, Malfoy bought three of the hats, which happened to be three of Harry’s favorites: the grey newsie, a charcoal homburg with an iridescent feather, and a soft blue baseball cap. None of them talked—maybe Malfoy didn’t want to have to compete—but they were charmed against water and flying away in a wind.

Harry tried to ring Malfoy up, though he botched the attempt because he’d never used a till before. Sophie canceled the transaction and showed him how the system worked. When Harry was done and handed over the bag with three hat boxes in it, Malfoy smirked at him.

“Thank you, Potter.”

Harry knew Malfoy was being a tosser, but he couldn’t help but smile back. Malfoy was wearing one of the hats, after all—the baseball cap—which was absurd because it was a _hat_ , after all. A Muggle-style hat. But also, it looked very good on him.

Harry swallowed dryly. “No problem.”

A steady stream of customers flowed in and out of the shop after that. Harry slipped into the rhythm of helping people. It turned out he wasn’t particularly good at choosing the right hats for people. However, he seemed to have a knack for making people smile and for drawing in passersby who had only paused to glance at some of the gaudy hats in the doorway. Also, he apparently had a knack for selling hats, even some of the more outrageous ones.

During one lull between customers, Sophie said, “Impressive. Your taste is terrible, but you have a real talent for charming people.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome. And thank you. I haven’t sold this many hats since Christmas.”

***

Later, as Harry helped Luna tuck the chickens in for the night, she said, “I’m glad you had fun today, Harry. It’s too bad you’re not very good at making hats, but Sophie said he wouldn’t mind if you showed up at the shop again tomorrow. He says you have excellent people skills.”

“Oh. That’s nice. You can tell him I said thanks, but I think selling hats isn’t for me.”

He didn’t mention that Malfoy had shown up at the shop. Now he had a new image in mind: Malfoy in a baseball cap. Malfoy in a baseball cap, smirking. Smirking—and smiling. And laughing.


	14. Chapter 14

Harry needed an alibi, which was the only reason he found himself pushing open the door to Malfoy’s shop the next morning.

His fingers had still been sore when he woke, peppered with angry red marks from repeatedly jabbing himself with a needle the day before. He’d been too embarrassed to ask Luna to cast a Healing Charm on them, so he cast some of the field spells he’d learned as an Auror. After ten minutes, his fingers were a little better (and only slightly stained turquoise), but he was definitely not up for another adventure yet. 

“Malfoy invited me back to shadow in the coffee shop,” Harry told Luna casually over breakfast. It was a lie, of course—but, for a cover story, he thought it wasn’t too bad. “I like working with people. I thought I’d give working behind the counter a try.”

Luna’s response had been so overwhelmingly positive that Harry felt guilty. Originally, he’d planned to take off for the day and see more of the city by himself. Only, when he arrived in the alley down the street from Malfoy’s shop, he remembered that sometimes Luna stopped by to deliver food.

So, he made the walk to Knead. He would tell Malfoy about his plan in case his supposed “day at the shop” came up in conversation. Also, he would grab a coffee.

As he entered the shop and the little bell rang above him, Harry realized he was planning to count on Malfoy for something, which was _mad_. Malfoy? Dependable? He stopped in the doorway, struck by the realization. But. But, if anything, he could count on Malfoy’s desire not to hurt Luna’s feelings—a thought which, itself, baffled him. 

He gave his head a shake to clear it and went to stand in line again, though his awareness of the shop was different this time. Gazing around, he couldn’t help but imagine the chairs up on the tables and the room dark and empty in the small hours of the morning, couldn’t help but hear the quiet of the sleeping shop behind the music and noise.

“Brulee caramel coffee and a ham and egg with no egg?”

“Actually—yeah.” After the dirty chai experience, Harry was all for sticking with something he knew. He handed over his card. “Where’s Malfoy?”

The woman with the purple-streaked hair didn’t bat an eye. “In the back. He’s bringing some stuff out.”

“Cheers.”

Malfoy appeared a few minutes later. (Harry _hadn’t_ been watching the back of the shop. He hadn’t.) He carried a box in his arms, and something indecipherable crossed his face when he caught sight of Harry standing next to the pick-up counter. His gaze cut to the staff behind the counter and then back to Harry. 

“What did you order?”

Harry, whose gaze had dropped to Malfoy’s collarbone, where the first few buttons of his shirt were undone, was taken aback by the abrupt question. “A ham sandwich and one of those brulee coffees.”

Malfoy scowled. “No, you didn’t.” He thunked his box down and leaned in to say something to the short-haired man who was slicing open a croissant roll.

Harry bristled. “Malfoy!”

Malfoy plucked a number stand from the counter and handed it to Harry. “We’ll bring your order out.”

“What? No.”

But Malfoy had already turned away and avoided meeting Harry’s eyes in the mirror behind the counter.

Bemused, Harry sat at his table in the corner and listened to the hiss and clatter of the machines. Malfoy came by a few minutes later with a whipped-cream-topped mug and a plate.

“No shadowing today?” he asked as he set both the mug and the plate down in front of Harry. “Given it up? Or are you already finished for the day?” 

The fact that Malfoy himself had probably been there since four that morning was not apparent on his face. He carried his usual brisk energy. Harry wondered how someone could be up so early on the regular and look so good.

For a moment, Harry blanked. He stared at Malfoy, who was smirking. Then he remembered why he was here. “Well. I actually told Luna I’d be helping you in the coffee shop today. So if she asks, could you tell her…? You know. I don’t want to disappoint her.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “You didn’t. You did not lie to Luna.”

“Ugh,” Harry said, covering his face. “To have you, of all people, say that.”

Malfoy’s face shuttered.

“Shit. No. I didn’t mean it like that. That was uncalled for. Sorry.” Heat rose in his face, and he closed his eyes. “That was a mean thing to say. You’ve been nothing but good to Ginny and Luna and me. Thanks for that. Forget I said that thing.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Just stop, Potter. Eat your food. I’m _such_ a good person, I’m going to do you a favor.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’m not going to let you lie to Luna because God only knows how you’ll chew yourself up later when Luna asks you how your day went and you have to make something up.”

Harry frowned and wanted to protest, but Malfoy had a point with that. “So…?”

“So I’m going to put you to work.” He clapped his hands. “Chop-chop. Eat up. And drink your coffee. You’ll need it. Lunch rush soon.”

He left Harry alone to eat the sandwich, which was full of shaved roast beef, thinly sliced potatoes, horseradish, and tiny greens with a peppery flavor—admittedly a nice change from the ham. The coffee was delicious and chocolatey, though when he was done, he still wanted one of the brulee things.

He stood in line again, though before he’d got to the front of it, the purple-haired barista winked at him and called him back behind the counter. 

“Uh…”

“Here,” she said, and handed him an apron. “Put this on and wash your hands.”

“I—okay.”

She made him wash his hands twice. When she was apparently satisfied with their level of cleanliness, she showed him how she made a brulee coffee. 

“Getting him extra caffeinated for you,” the purple-haired barista—“Heather” according to her name tag—said to Malfoy when he reappeared. 

“Charming,” Malfoy drawled. “Come on, Potter. This way. Before you break one of my coffee machines simply by existing too close to them.”

“I take back what I said earlier about you being a good person.”

“My heart shatters.”

He led Harry toward the back of the shop. In the kitchen, he turned to scrutinize Harry from head to toe. Harry’s neck felt hot. This time, Harry was kind of expecting it, so he wasn’t surprised when Malfoy flicked his wand and Transfigured Harry’s clothes. Harry looked down to find himself in a green button-up and artfully distressed jeans. It wasn’t too different from what he’d already been wearing, but the jeans felt snugger, and so was the shirt, at his shoulders.

“I’ll give you the tour I give all of my new coffee shop employees,” Malfoy said, and took him around the kitchen again, except this time he showed Harry the bags of green coffee—the unroasted beans really did come green—and the roasting machines. He explained that roasting brought out the fruity, nutty flavors, but if you roasted the beans too long, they would taste burnt—“Which completely defeats the purpose of buying expensive beans.” 

_Why bother with expensive beans?_ Harry refrained from asking, and only nodded along as Malfoy talked about finding the right flavor balance and roasting the coffee evenly (because something about _moisture_ and the _thickness of the beans_ ). 

The flow of words mostly went in one ear and out the other, but Harry liked hearing Malfoy talk, liked hearing the cadence of Americanisms mixed with the posh drawl that came out when Malfoy was lecturing. It amused Harry maybe more than it should have. He wanted to keep Malfoy going, so he asked a couple of questions, which perked Malfoy up—and soon Harry was hearing about single-origin beans and farmer relations and fair trade and specialty coffee.

Then Malfoy seemed to remember that he and Harry were meant to help with the lunch rush, and they returned to the front of the shop.

It was strange to be on this side of the counter. From where he stood, Harry could see out the front window that Malfoy stood at when he was mixing and kneading dough during the day. He could see the spot where he himself had stood when he’d first spotted Malfoy from the opposite side of the road.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, and Harry turned to find himself nose-to-nose with him in the narrow space. Malfoy wasn’t quite smiling, but the corners of his eyes crinkled almost as if he were. “Pay attention.”

Malfoy showed him the shop’s two different coffee grinders (“But you’ll only be using this one”) and how to measure the ground coffee into the automatic coffee maker. Unlike the other morning, when Harry had been loading bread into the oven, Malfoy gave him very clear instructions, long fingers brushing over the machines and their parts as he talked. Harry’s hackles rose; he wanted to tell Malfoy he got it, he knew how to use a coffee machine (never mind that he had only just learned from Ginny), but he was entranced.

Heather interrupted Malfoy to say, “Latte,” as casual as could be, as if it were natural to throw orders at Malfoy, and Malfoy said, “Coming up.” He flipped a cup from a small stack of them. Then he was stuffing a rag into his back pocket and filling up the special grinder that Harry wasn’t supposed to touch. He tamped the grounds down in a little long-handled metal cylinder, which made the muscles of his forearm stand out, then loaded the cylinder into one of the machines. While two steady streams of thick black espresso dripped into the coffee cup, he poured milk into a small pitcher to steam. 

Harry swore he could feel the heat of Malfoy’s body in the cramped quarters. He might have had room to take at least one step back, but he didn’t. He was too absorbed with watching Malfoy’s hand spin a knob as the milk in the pitcher swirled and hissed. The mirror against the back wall was very close, so Harry had a good view in the reflection.

Malfoy glanced up and caught his eye in the reflection. A jolt went through Harry. 

Malfoy turned. He had a tiny smile on his face that Harry could only see because they were so close. 

“Now the best part,” he said, and—with measured movements—began to pour the steamed milk into the puddle of espresso at the bottom of the cup. The coffee billowed with pale swirls of milk until it turned a soft brown. With a flourish, Malfoy drew a white flower pattern onto the surface with the frothed milk. 

Harry swallowed. “Show off.”

“That’ll be in the advanced class,” Malfoy said, smirking. “Let’s start you off with the basics.”

“The basics” involved having Harry pour several plain coffees and adding whipped cream to the tops of the fancier drinks that Malfoy prepared. Malfoy stopped Harry twice to correct his whipped cream skills, which—it was _whipped cream_ , for Merlin’s sake. But he had to admit that there was something enchanting about the twirl of Malfoy’s hand as he applied the topping. 

Soon, Harry was decorating the drinks with finesse and calling out orders while placing them on the pick-up counter as if he’d been working behind the counter for weeks.

Next, Malfoy showed him how to steam milk. He corrected Harry’s hand positions with little touches from his own. 

“Good,” he said, as the milk hissed in the pitcher. His fingers were warm against Harry’s.

“It’s not Potions, Malfoy,” Harry muttered.

“ _Language_ , Potter,” Malfoy murmured near his ear. “Tsk. If you were still an Auror, you’d have to report yourself.”

“Good thing I’m not.”

Harry botched his first two attempts to pour a latte. Malfoy hovered over him and clicked his tongue and said something about “velocity,” which did nothing to help Harry understand why the steamed milk wasn’t mixing properly with the thick espresso when he poured it in. 

Heather turned from the till. She snagged the cup of espresso and the pitcher of steamed milk from Harry and said, “Look. You want the milk to go under the espresso, so you start off far away. But you don’t want it to splash, so hold it close first, then pull back—like this. You don’t have to worry about the latte art at the end. That’s just for show.”

It made perfect sense, then, and Harry poured his next latte perfectly. He shot a look at Malfoy. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. Heather clapped, and the customer on the other side of the till said, “Congrats!”

Two lattes later, Harry had begun to learn how to make latte art with the steamed milk. 

“What do you think about _that_?” he asked Malfoy, showing him his latest heart design.

Malfoy peered into the cup. “Looks like a lopsided ballsack.”

Harry scowled. “You look like a lopsided ballsack.”

Heather, at the till, snorted a laugh.

Malfoy shot her a look. “Watch it.”

“I didn’t say a thing,” she said as she handed a receipt and a number to a customer.

“Your thoughts were loud enough.”

The customer laughed.

Malfoy showed Harry a few more basic drinks, and soon they fell into a rhythm: grinding beans, loading the espresso machine, steaming milk, pouring coffee, stirring in syrups, applying whipped cream, assembling sandwiches, removing rolls and desserts from the cases—all while insulting each other, to the amusement of Heather and the customers.

“You’re being distracting,” Malfoy said at one point, and parked Harry at the till to take orders, which Harry did not point out was probably a worse mistake than leaving him on barista duty.

Heather showed him how to enter orders, run the cards, and operate the cash drawer. Harry still didn’t know the names to half the drinks, but he thought he would try out his newly discovered “charm” and began to make random suggestions to the customers. Not all of them took the suggestion, but enough of them did—including some regulars with established orders—that Heather gave him an impressed look. Malfoy kept his own expression carefully neutral, but Harry could tell that he was impressed, too—though perhaps not as impressed when Harry took the liberty to bark drink orders at him. Then he looked tight-lipped and disgruntled. Harry liked that expression, and so he took the opportunity to snap several more orders at him. 

Most of the customers were nice, though a few were apparently having less than ideal days, or frowned impatiently when Harry squinted at the money they handed him and had to peer at every note to count the unfamiliar change. Harry discovered that he could win most of these over with a smile and a few words in his British accent. Bafflingly, this tactic had an opposite effect on Malfoy, who scowled when Harry teased a laugh out of a dour-looking young woman.

“Wanker,” Malfoy muttered to Harry under his breath.

“Takes one to know one.”

“You two are hilarious,” Heather said.

“You should have your own reality TV show,” the customer put in.

Harry was having fun.

Before he knew it, the queue had cleared. The lunch rush was over.

“Oh,” he said, and glanced up at the Disillusioned clock, whose hand had crept into “afternoon lull.”

“Here,” Malfoy said, with a soft touch to his elbow.

Harry looked down. Malfoy held up a tiny cup full of dark brown liquid. His first impression was that it was espresso, but there was too much of it for espresso, and it looked too thick.

“What’s this?”

“The concentrated extract of his enemy’s nightmares,” Heather said, without missing a beat.

Malfoy snorted. “You’re a gem.”

Harry looked into the little cup. “Here goes nothing.” He took a sip. It was liquid chocolate, bittersweet and almost sour.

“What do you think?” Malfoy asked, looking at him keenly.

“Hm. Delicious.”

Heather laughed. “Can we keep him?”

“No. He’s not house-trained,” Malfoy deadpanned.

“Maybe not,” Harry said. “But I can do tricks.”

Malfoy, taking a sip of an iced drink, choked.


	15. Chapter 15

Harry knew he’d made a mistake as soon as he said, “All right, Malfoy. I’d like my clothes back to the way they were, thanks.”

They stood in the corner of the kitchen that had been set aside as the break area, having bowls of broccoli and cheese soup with crusty bread and the blackberry lemonade that Malfoy kept as the special summer drink. (In the colder months, it was hot cider.)

Malfoy didn’t say anything aloud, only raised a skeptical eyebrow and waved his wand while still chewing on a mouthful of bread. The clothes immediately sagged on Harry. 

“To your satisfaction?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks.” Although it really wasn’t. Harry looked down at himself, at his loose jeans and the worn button-down, and felt…drab. He had the urge to ask Malfoy to change them again, but he couldn’t bring himself to give Malfoy (with his skeptical eyebrow raising) the gratification.

Harry frowned into his soup bowl. He’d been high on laughter and caffeine for most of the afternoon, and he and Malfoy had continued to banter through their meal, but now it hit him that his afternoon with Malfoy was coming to a close.

His mood sagged like his clothes. 

He used his last piece of bread to scrape up the remaining soup in his bowl. Across from him, Malfoy rinsed his own bowl in the sink and loaded it into the dishwasher. This action struck Harry as odd—though it shouldn’t have, considering Harry had watched Malfoy using Muggle machines all afternoon. 

Still. Did Malfoy use a dishwasher at home? Or was this one for show, since Malfoy employed a Muggle staff? (Harry _assumed_ they were Muggle.) For that matter, did Malfoy live in a magical district? Or did he live in a Muggle home?

Malfoy turned, drying his hands in a towel. “Have Ginny and Luna shown you around any more of the city yet?”

“Huh? Oh. No, they haven’t.” Luna and Ginny had remained busy around the farm, and so had Harry. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he still hadn’t seen much of Portland.

“Then let’s remedy that,” Malfoy said.

“What?” 

Harry braced himself for an acerbic retort from Malfoy—maybe a snap of his fingers and a reminder to “keep up”—but Malfoy only regarded him with a blank expression, as if he were preoccupied. He was leaning against the counter, drumming his fingers against its top. Maybe it was from all of the coffee; maybe it was excess energy from the lunch rush.

“Hold on a minute,” he said, and disappeared into the back of the kitchen. When he returned a couple of minutes later, he had a bag slung across his shoulders and wore the newsboy cap.

“You’re wearing one of the hats.”

Malfoy touched a hand to his head. “Yes. One does that with hats.”

Harry shook his head. He had no idea how to tell Malfoy he hadn’t thought Malfoy would actually _wear_ them. Because—okay. People did buy hats to wear them. And Malfoy had bought this hat.

It didn’t stop Harry from glancing at it. He continued to glance at it as they exited the shop and walked down the pavement.

“The first thing to know about Portland is that, to fully experience it, you have to take public transportation.”

“Okay…”

Harry was fascinated by this Malfoy: walking briskly, eyes slightly narrowed as he looked ahead, one hand slung on the bag at his hip.

They turned down a road Harry hadn’t been on before, past a thrift shop and a supermarket, to a bus stop. Malfoy looked for all the world like a Muggle standing there—at ease, like it was natural for him. Harry’s eye wasn’t the only one caught by him. Malfoy drew glances from passersby—women and men. Harry frowned at them, especially when Malfoy met some of their gazes and nodded in greeting.

“So, what _do_ you do in your off time?” Harry asked, and was gratified when Malfoy turned his attention to him. 

“You assume I have off time.”

“Everyone has off time.” Although, Harry hadn’t really had any, had he? 

“You’ve seen my schedule. I’m there early, I leave after lunch, frequently I return to close after dinner. Sometimes I see Ginny and Luna.”

“And?”

“And that’s it.”

The bus arrived in a billow of heat, and its doors hissed open. Harry climbed up behind Malfoy and fumbled at the pay machine for his card, only for the bus driver to tell him, “Your friend already paid.”

Harry caught up with Malfoy near one of the bus’s middle seats. “You don’t have to pay for me.”

“True. I don’t.” He waved a hand. “Window seat?”

“I—yeah. Okay.” He took the window seat, and Malfoy sat next to him in a wash of coffee and bread and citrus scents.

As they passed shops and restaurants and parks, Harry had to agree that Malfoy was right: public transportation was a good way to experience the city. He’d got so used to Apparating to get from one place to another, he tended to think of “travel” as a purely practical action. 

Now, he settled into the ride for the sake of the ride itself. It reminded him a bit of being on the Hogwarts Express, though the scenery and the seats and the smells and the company were all different. He remembered his friends being engrossed in games and books while he looked out the window, content to enjoy watching the world roll by. (He also remembered Malfoy stopping by to sneer at them.) 

Before that first trip to Hogwarts, Harry hadn’t observed much scenery. And now it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen much outside of Grimmauld Place and the Ministry, either, since he’d signed on as an Auror. Even out in the field, he hadn’t paid much attention to the world around him, except to remain vigilant for danger. Now, Harry relaxed and took in the sights—the window displays, the older brick buildings butting up against newer facades, the quirky shop names. 

Neither he nor Malfoy said anything. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that Malfoy was staring at him, but he knew Malfoy was only looking past him through the window.

“Here,” Malfoy said after some time. The bus stopped, and they clambered down onto the pavement.

“It’s a bookshop?” Harry said, as they crossed the street and approached a door next to a long glass window filled with stacks and stacks of books.

“It’s not _a_ bookshop. It’s _the_ bookshop. The biggest in America, even by non-magical standards. But it’s even bigger than the non-magicals know.” Malfoy shot Harry an evil grin, and Harry nearly walked into the edge of the door.

Malfoy dragged him through room after room, which were all connected by staircases and filled with bookcases. Memories of Hermione’s stories came back to him; upon returning from a trip to see Ginny and Luna, she’d mentioned this place in reverent tones.

“Tell me this isn’t Wizard Space,” Harry muttered.

“This isn’t Wizard Space.” He paused in a short corridor and grinned. “But this is.” He led Harry through an unmarked door, down a dim staircase, to a door with a plaque that read “Electrical.” He paused as if for dramatic effect—of _course_ for dramatic effect—before shoving it open.

The door screeched and shuddered, and for a moment Harry thought that Malfoy _must_ be having him on this time. Then it swung wide, and a wave of ink and parchment smells wafted out, along with the sound of voices.

He and Malfoy stepped into a cavernous space whose ceiling stretched much higher than the floor of the bookshop above. It brought Harry memories of Flourish and Blotts, though Flourish and Blotts had never been so _big_.

“It’s a lot of books,” Malfoy said, “but I promise they won’t hurt you.”

“Shut up, Malfoy. Maybe you should worry about protecting the books from me.”

Malfoy snorted.

They passed lavish displays and floating platforms that carried people to the higher shelves of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. There was a caged-off area for the “Books That Bite — enter at your own risk” and a special room for old, cursed volumes with “tours and viewings by appointment only.”

“I want to check on one thing,” Malfoy said, and searched the signs at the ends of the cases until he found one in particular. He led Harry halfway down the aisle and boarded one of the floating platforms. He didn’t say anything, but he glanced over as if waiting for Harry, so Harry stepped up next to him. The platform was just big enough for them to stand side by side, and it didn’t have a railing.

The platform rose smoothly—then made an abrupt turn. Startled and off-balance, Harry snagged Malfoy’s trouser pocket.

“ _Tsk_. You don’t fly anymore, Potter? That’s a pity.”

Harry pulled his hand away (he could still feel Malfoy’s warmth against his fingers) and scowled. “Yeah, I fly. It’s not the same as this.”

Malfoy didn’t reply, only smiled smugly. 

“As if you’re a Quidditch star now, yourself,” Harry muttered.

“I don’t have to be a Quidditch star to go flying. I fly for fun all the time. You forget I have Ginny for a friend.”

The jab didn’t hit Harry as hard as it could have, probably because it was the truth—Ginny _was_ Malfoy’s friend—and because Harry was starting to understand that. Instead, Malfoy’s words filled Harry with something more baffling: a soft longing. But for what, Harry wasn’t sure.

The platform continued to rise. From above, the magical folk looked so small. The whole magical bookshop, however, only appeared to get bigger. There were _so_ many books. The sight dizzied Harry.

“Here,” Malfoy said, and the platform came to a smooth stop. Malfoy pulled a book from the shelf. He flipped through it for a minute, nodded, tucked it under his arm, and asked the platform to return them to the floor.

Malfoy paid for the book and slipped it into his bag, then he took Harry through a side door. They exited into a sunken courtyard occupied by artists selling paintings and little stuffed magical creatures and knitted accessories. Harry bought a small Thunderbird for Luna and a Snitch beanie for Ginny.

They took the stairs back up to street level, passing window box planters and individually-painted bricks and a calico cat that stared out at them from a bedroom.

“When’s the last time you had ice cream?” Malfoy asked.

“Uhh.” Harry couldn’t remember.

“Your expression is answer enough. Come on.”

They went down the street to an unassuming little ice cream shop with the strangest flavors Harry had heard of. Strawberry balsamic and peppercorn. Chocolate stout brownie. Maple and bacon buttermilk pancake. Lavender tangerine and rose water. Olive oil.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Malfoy murmured. “You’ve had Bertie Botts. Meet the non-magical equivalent—as ice cream.”

Malfoy ordered an apple and blue cheese cone. Harry wanted the double chocolate, since he at least recognized that, but when Malfoy leaned past him to say, “Scratch that. Marionberry pie and honey lemon,” Harry was momentarily too stunned by the warm press of his shoulder to protest. 

By the time they got to the till a minute later, Harry had recovered enough to enter a brief scuffle with Malfoy over who would pay—much to the amusement of the staff. In the end, Harry won. 

“Just accept it, Malfoy,” Harry said, as he took his card back from the cashier.

“I will, but you’d better watch your ice cream.”

“Ah! Shit!” Harry hissed, and righted his cone before the scoop of honey lemon fell off the top. 

He thought they would stop to eat at the stone and wooden bench outside the ice cream shop, but Malfoy took him to the car park around the side of the shop and stepped behind a van. Harry licked a trail of melting ice cream from the side of his cone and watched as Malfoy murmured a couple of charms at his own. It looked like a Stasis Charm and something that glimmered like a Shield Charm. Done with this, he tucked the cone into his bag. Then he reached for Harry’s.

“Hey! What!” Harry was so stunned by Malfoy’s boldness and the brush of his fingers that he released his grip.

Malfoy muttered the charms at Harry’s cone and placed that into his bag, as well.

“What the hell, Malfoy!”

“Stop being a baby. You’ll get it back.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You have ice cream right here.” He pointed at the corner of his own mouth.

Harry touched his face and felt stickiness. He licked his fingers and then dragged his tongue over his lips. “Is it gone?”

Malfoy’s eyes flickered. “Cretin.” He produced a napkin, smoothed it out, and handed it to Harry. It was still warm from Malfoy’s pocket when Harry used it.

“Where are we going now?” Harry asked, as Malfoy led him down the street. “And when can I have my ice cream back?”

“So many questions,” Malfoy said, but the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. He refused to answer any of them as they transferred from a bus to the train to another bus. 

At last, they came to a stop in a hilltop park overlooking the city.

“Now you may have it back,” Malfoy said. He reached into his bag and withdrew the ice cream cone—carefully, cradling it like a kitten. “It’s all right,” he murmured to the cone. “Harry can eat you now, I promise.”

Harry laughed. “Give me that, you tosser.”

Malfoy lifted the Shield Charm from the cone but left the Stasis in place. “It won’t melt on you, that way,” he explained.

Harry huffed, and turned so Malfoy wouldn’t see the pleased expression on his face. 

They sat on a bench and looked down over the city. Interesting to see it from above—the neat grid pattern so different from London’s organic sprawl. A short wall separated the park’s footpath from the overlook’s drop-off. Along it grew a tangle of rose bushes, and there was also a small telescope. Harry wasn’t sure if that was for looking at stars or for looking at the streets and buildings below. It reminded him of the Astronomy Tower, though this bright and breezy afternoon was a world away from that memory. 

Harry loved the honey lemon ice cream, and he loved the marionberry pie flavor, too, though when Malfoy asked what he thought of them, Harry only shrugged and said, “They’re all right. How’s yours?”

“Try for yourself,” Malfoy said, and handed his cone over. 

Harry had already forgotten which flavor Malfoy had got, and was pleasantly surprised by the taste of crisp, tart apple and creamy cheese. “Oh, wow.”

Malfoy smiled smugly and took his cone back. He licked the corner of his mouth and then the ice cream. Harry dragged his gaze back to the vista.

As Harry crunched through his cone and watched crows squabble in a tree, it occurred to him that he liked spending time with Malfoy. Adult Malfoy was mocking but not mean. He challenged Harry, but Harry enjoyed that, enjoyed the thrill. Also, apparently, they could have quiet moments like these together. With Malfoy, Harry didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. He just didn’t care—as far as he was concerned, the tosser could deal with the discomfort if the quiet bothered him. Not that he looked bothered. He looked perfectly content licking his cone with that stupid hat on his head. Anyway, it wasn’t like Malfoy didn’t know how to fill a silence if he wanted to. And _he_ didn’t seem to care whether or not Harry wanted to listen to his ceaseless monologues (in fact, Harry did).

When Harry was done, he Scourgified his fingers and waited for Malfoy to finish his own cone. A lone cloud moved across the sky, which was so _blue_. Harry was not surprised to learn that Malfoy flew for pleasure. The sky here was so big and inviting. Harry had the urge to Apparate back to the farm for his borrowed broom.

“Want me to show you something?”

Harry looked at Malfoy, who grinned at him as he sucked the last of the ice cream from the nub of cone he had left. 

Malfoy didn’t seem to require a response, which was good because none was forthcoming. He dusted his hands and went to the telescope. “Here.”

He seemed to be waiting for Harry, so Harry joined him. He turned the telescope and glanced into the view scope as he adjusted its position, then stepped back. “Right there.”

Harry paused a moment because this was the kind of thing teenaged Malfoy would have done to set up a prank. Then he removed his glasses and put his eye to the scope. He didn’t see anything at first, and that wasn’t just because everything was blurry. His attention was on Malfoy, on the fact that Malfoy’s hand was still on the telescope, steadying it. On the fact that Malfoy stood so close while Harry was unguarded.

Malfoy murmured a charm. A shiver of alarm went through Harry, but in the next instant, the view in the telescope cleared and sharpened. Harry found himself looking at a number of shops and buildings.

“Okay?” Harry said, straightening and placing his glasses back on. 

“That’s the food bank.”

“All right?”

“You asked what I do in my off time.” Malfoy nodded his head in the direction of the distant building. “Three times a week, I drop off our unsold food. Bread, croissants, soup. And sometimes they need help dropping meals off at homes.”

 _You’re taking the piss_ , Harry wanted to say, but Malfoy looked too sincere standing there with his hands hooked in his pockets, gazing down at the city. 

Instead, he said, “I’m imagining you on a Muggle bus with an armful of bread.”

“Non-magical,” Malfoy corrected. “I don’t take the bus. I drive.”

Harry, who had just been trying to figure out the logistics of Apparating with all of that food, frowned at Malfoy. “You—what?”

“I drive. In an automobile. It has a combustion engine. Surely you’ve heard of them?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of them. I’ve even been in one or two.”

“Oh, good.”

Harry wanted to strangle Malfoy, just a little. But Malfoy was smiling at him, surrounded by pink roses, and all he could do was stare. 

Malfoy turned to lean his knees against the short wall as he looked down at the city. “The other thing I do with my time? Spy.”

Harry came to stand next to him and crossed his arms. “Spy.” The word made his stomach twist a bit.

“Oh, yes. I’ve visited every other bakery in the city, and most of the coffee shops. There’s only one that makes croissants better than mine, but don’t ask me which one, because I won’t tell you.”

Harry laughed, perhaps louder than necessary. “A _food_ spy!”

“Yes! I take my business very seriously, Potter, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else’s ability to gather intelligence.”

“Merlin. Malfoy. You’re mad.” Harry rubbed tears of mirth from his eyes.

Malfoy sniffed. “See over there? There’s a small donut shop that sells an Earl Grey flavor with lavender icing. Very tempting to recreate the recipe. And in that general direction is a bakery that advertises making everything on site, but I’ve seen them hauling boxes in from Costco. How no one recognizes those giant poppyseed muffins, I have no idea.”

Harry laughed some more, helplessly. The breeze brought with it a waft of roses. The sun shone down. Malfoy kept talking, and Harry didn’t mind.


	16. Chapter 16

Harry was sitting on the top step of the garden path, having an American “biscuit” with some kind of sauce—Luna called it vegan gravy; it wasn’t half bad—and wondering what Luna had in store for him next (and just how he could duck out of it) when something dropped next to him with a loud thump.

“Oi!”

It was a bag. He glanced up to find Ginny smirking.

“What the hell, Gin? What’s that for?”

“This,” Ginny nudged the bag with the toe of her trainer, “is an Emitter.”

“A what?”

“It’s me saving you from selling shoes today.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Unless you want to sell shoes.”

“Merlin. No. Selling hats was enough for me, thanks.”

Ginny looked too smug. “That’s what I thought. Luna is under the impression that you love sales. I told her you were interested in learning how to use this handsome little device. The demonstration starts now, unless you want to handle the feet of old men all day.”

“Coming,” Harry said, and hopped up. He wiped crumbs from his mouth and sent the plate back to the kitchen with a quick wand motion.

Harry picked up the bag and followed Ginny. She carried two more identical bags. He glanced inside of his.

“Is this…” He tried to recall the science fiction shows Dudley used to watch. “Is this a ray gun?”

Ginny laughed. “Sort of. Dad was…inspired.”

“Arthur made this?”

“Yep. Designed them with help from Xeno.”

Harry looked in at the ray gun look-alike in the bag. “Your dad and Luna’s dad…”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

“Yep.”

“And…what exactly are we doing with this?” he said, wondering if maybe selling shoes would have been the better choice.

Ginny didn’t say anything. Harry knew better than to repeat the question. She was in some kind of mischievous mood. He’d bear with it. One of the _nice_ things about having grown up fighting a snake-faced Dark wizard and then spending the last decade running after yet more Dark wizards was that it put everything else in perspective. Few things seemed so bad compared to all that.

They walked past the gardens and past the enclosure where the goats milled about, munching grass, to one of the broad, empty fields. It sloped down towards the creek that ran below and towards the forest beyond.

“What the hell are those?” Harry asked, staring across the field.

The short green and golden grass was dotted with little mounds of…something. He walked up to one. It looked as if a small pile of dark brown soil had been covered with stones, leaves, and sticks, forming a vaguely chaotic, vaguely aesthetic pattern.

“Ground fairies,” Ginny said. “Ground fairy mounds.” She set her bags down and took an Emitter from one.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Are we…killing them?”

“God, no. Luna would have my balls.”

Harry grimaced. He set his own bag down near her and watched as she adjusted dials on the device, held it up to her ear to listen, gave it another shake, and nodded.

“We’re not going to kill them,” Ginny said, “but we are going to make things extremely uncomfortable for them.”

“All right…”

“They emit some kind of magical resonance that we can’t sense, but it drives the fairies bonkers. You’d have to ask Dad for the full version, but get ready for an hour-long lecture. We’ve got”—she patted the bags—“several of these because you need as many people as possible. The fairies hop into another mound to escape, but we don’t want them hopping into another mound—we want them to move to another field, preferably not one of ours—so you can’t leave any unattended. Here’s how you set it up.”

She showed him how to turn the Emitter on and calibrate it. She also showed him how to seal the fairy mounds with an incantation, which needed to be done as soon the fairies had left them.

While she cast spells over the field, visually tagging the mounds with bright markers of floating colored light, Harry set up his device and the extra one that Ginny had brought.

Ginny pointed across the field to cast another marker. “So how’s it going with your big gay awakening?”

“My—what?”

Ginny didn’t meet his eye, but there was a faint smile on her face.

Harry’s mouth dropped open to respond with—what, he didn’t know. But at that moment, Luna appeared from over the rise.

“Good morning!” she hailed in a sing-song. She strode up with a wide-brimmed hat on her head and an Emitter dangling in one hand. “I’m so excited you’re interested in the ground fairy removal, Harry.”

“Ah…”

“Oh, good,” she said, looking over the field. “You thought to mark them this time. It did get rather confusing last time when they swarmed and we lost track of the mounds.”

“Yeah. You made a good suggestion. I even made them different colors so we’d know where to aim.”

“So thoughtful,” Luna said. She squeezed Ginny’s hand and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Ginny smiled and squeezed back.

“I call red,” she said.

Luna brightened. “Purple!”

That left two colors, green and blue—but there were only three of them altogether.

“Green,” drawled a deeper voice from behind him.

Harry whirled. “Malfoy. What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you, too, Potter. Nice to see you doing well. I take it you slept well after yesterday’s adventures?”

Harry looked at Ginny. She didn’t meet his gaze, but he swore she was smiling again.

“Yeah. I’m doing fine, thanks,” he grit out. “How are you?”

“Not bad. Not bad.” Malfoy bent to pick up the fourth Emitter—which Harry had just set up—and gave it a quick check, as if he’d done this dozens of times before. He looked the most casual Harry had seen him yet, dressed in worn-looking jeans and a t-shirt, and yet he still managed to look effortlessly good.

Malfoy took a look across the field and nodded. “Great idea with the markers. We each take a corner. I see. Well. It can’t go any worse than last time. It can only go better.”

“Or just as bad,” Ginny drawled.

“Or just as bad.”

He gave Luna a quick kiss on the cheek, caught Harry watching, and grinned. “You want one, too?”

“What? No!”

Luna laughed—a clear, delighted sound. She looked bright and cheerful. Ginny looked determined and a tad bloodthirsty, an expression Harry was familiar with from their Quidditch games. Malfoy looked cool, calm, and relaxed.

“All right. Take your positions,” Ginny said. She, Luna, and Malfoy each took up at a corner of the field near their color.

Harry stepped into his own corner. He felt inexplicably nervous. The device was unwieldy in his hand. He’d never held a gun before, not even a toy gun. It felt wrong and bulky and cartoonish, like a thing that really had been taken from an old science fiction show. He cracked a smile at the thought of Arthur binging on vintage sci-fi movies in the name of research.

Across the field, Luna clutched her Emitter in both hands. Ginny held hers in one, resting on her shoulder. Malfoy cradled his to his chest.

Then Ginny said, “On my mark! Get set! Go!”

Harry pointed and pulled the trigger. So did the others. For an instant, nothing happened, and Harry wondered if something had gone wrong. Then the air exploded with a high-pitched droning, and hundreds of fairies burst into the air.

“Shit!” Harry cried.

Malfoy laughed.

Ginny shouted something unintelligible. And Luna cast emphatically at the ground.

Harry couldn’t think through the storm of wings and shrieking. Then he remembered the spell Ginny had shown him for sealing up the mounds—except it was a bit hard to cast with the fairies swarming.

“Blast and cast!” Ginny shouted. “Blast! And! Cast!”

Harry got it. They were shooting their Emitters at the same time so that the fairies didn’t dive into another mound and then each throwing one of the quick sealing charms at the closest open mound.

“Step to your left!” Ginny yelled.

Harry did. So did Ginny and Luna—and Malfoy, without hesitation. They all took another shot and pointed their wands at the mounds. Harry fumbled his first couple attempts at the sealing spell but got it on the third, despite the fairy that buzzed angrily into his face.

“They’re hopping,” Malfoy called. Harry—glancing down at that moment—saw what he meant: the fairies had organized themselves into little flocks and were diving into unattended mounds.

“Let them,” Ginny called back, grimly. “Two shots this time! Then seal!”

A moment later, when Ginny yelled, “Blast!” Malfoy pressed the trigger twice before laying down the sealing spell.

Harry followed suit, and it clicked for him then: the rhythm of shooting and casting. Ginny, Luna, and Malfoy had each advanced closer to the center of the field. A number of their colored markers had disappeared as the mounds were sealed. At a glance, Ginny had sealed the most, but Malfoy was close to her in numbers. The focused expression on his face spurred Harry on. He cast a quick Shield Charm around himself.

Blast. Seal. Blast. Blast. Seal.

In seconds, he’d got three more of his blue markers to disappear. The fairies thrummed around him, but because of the Shield Charm, they weren’t in his face. He pushed on.

Malfoy shouted something. When Harry glanced up, Malfoy was looking at him. He shouted again, but Harry couldn’t hear. That was fine. Let him shout. Harry was getting ahead.

Blast. Seal.

The fairies were getting thicker around Harry. He waved his arm and let off a couple of extra rounds to clear them so he could see, but it didn’t work—as soon as the Emitter had fired, they closed in again. Harry couldn’t see the ground.

Harry didn’t realize the situation he was in until a whirring, fluttering wall of fairies had completely enclosed him. The Shield Charm spat and sparked. The pressure of his own magic squeezed around him. He felt a moment of panic as the air buzzed in his throat as if electrified.

Then the ground under his feet and the air around him trembled, and the fairies blasted away, screaming. The summer sun once more flooded over him.

A strong hand gripped Harry’s arm before Harry could fall onto his arse. “Really, Potter,” Malfoy said. He looked flushed and breathless. “A Shield Charm? I thought you left the suicidal tendencies behind.”

Harry had no idea what to say. He blinked back at Malfoy, still tingling from the combination of his own magic and Malfoy’s washing over him.

There was no time to think of anything. The fairies circled back around in a huge swarm, wings glinting hard and bright in the sunlight, and Malfoy shot another spell at them. Malfoy then closed the last of the green-tagged mounds in quick succession. When he was done with that, he began to help Harry with the blue mounds.

“Good job, team!” Ginny said a few minutes later, when the last of the mounds had been closed and the angry mob of fairies had disappeared over the trees.

Harry let his arm with the Emitter drop limply, and he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wand hand.

“Nice save, Malfoy,” Ginny added.

“Yes, that was excellent. Very good use of the Repelling Spell. Sorry, Harry. I think you must have been very focused, because you didn’t hear: the Shield Charm attracts the ground fairies and actually feeds them energy. Thank gods Draco responded quickly.”

“Yeah. Thank gods,” Ginny said.

Harry glanced up to find Malfoy grinning at him. He should have been furious with embarrassment, but he wasn’t. Malfoy looked so happy, smile reaching his eyes. Their teasing glint made Harry’s breath catch.

Ginny’s words from earlier about his “big gay awakening” came back to him, and he nearly groaned aloud.


	17. Chapter 17

Ginny offered to serve something called “lime electuary” along with blackberry pie and ice cream—apparently, this was some kind of tradition after ground fairy removal; Harry only half-heard the explanation—but he begged off to take a shower. He didn’t wait to hear what Malfoy had to say about refreshments.

As the water poured over him, he could still feel Malfoy’s grip on his arm—and his magic. The tingle of it mingled with the spray. Even after the shower, dry and in clean clothes and having downed a glass of cold water from the ice box, Harry could still feel Malfoy lingering beneath his skin.

He went to the sliding glass door and stood on the balcony, looking out over the forest. The early afternoon sun slanted across the farm and glinted on the leaves of the trees.

A breeze carried scents of warm sweet grass to him. For a minute, he considered taking flight. He took the broom from where it leaned in the corner, but a moment later, he set it back. It would be rude to leave Luna and Ginny without telling them, although probably neither of them would be surprised.

He spent another few minutes watching the Erumpent make its daily migration from one half of the distant field to the other. It went slowly, though Harry knew from personal experience that it could move much, much faster. Harry watched it till it was out of sight, until enough time had passed that a certain blond could have reasonably eaten and left.

Downstairs, the back door was open to the patio. Voices drifted in from outside. A spell to keep bugs and wildlife from entering the house shimmered in the threshold, and it prickled Harry’s skin as he walked through. Harry braced himself to see Malfoy, but only Ginny and Luna sat there, each with a glass of pale green liquid and the remnants of blackberry pie.

Harry relaxed and dropped into a chair across from them.

Ginny grinned. “We thought maybe you’d taken off on your own.” 

“What, without telling you? Never,” he said, and ignored Ginny’s snort. He looked around the patio. The sun shone through the leaves of the vines spilling around them, and a butterfly fluttered past. “Beautiful afternoon. What’s for dinner? Should I get anything from the garden?”

“Actually, we’re going to take you to another brewery,” Luna said.

“Oh. Just us this time?” Harry tried not to sound hopeful.

“Yes! Just us and Draco. He went home to change clothes.”

“Oh,” said Harry.

Luna reached over to pat his hand. “You’re looking a bit flushed, Harry. Let me get you some electuary. That’ll make you feel better.”

***

The electuary, it turned out, was some kind of herbal infusion sweetened with honey. The ginger and lime in it went well with the slice of blackberry pie Luna brought him. Having the snack gave Harry something to do while he tried to come up with a way to back out of the brewery trip—though he couldn’t think of a thing that wouldn’t make Ginny ask questions. And anyway. He liked beer. 

He stared at himself in the downstairs bathroom mirror and considered changing his clothes. Then he realized he was worrying about his appearance and rolled his eyes at himself.

Luna Apparated them into the city. From a glance down the street, Harry couldn’t tell if he’d been here before or not. There were restaurants and shops as far as the eye could see.

They walked a short way to a relatively unassuming-looking building and went inside. This time, they stopped at the podium to talk to the host.

Harry looked around at the decor. None of the art was moving. He mentioned it to Luna.

“I wouldn’t expect it to. It’s a non-magical establishment. Though you never know these days. They’re doing clever things with screens and waves.”

“It’s all right, Harry,” Ginny said, at the look on his face. She gave his shoulder a slow, heavy pat. “It happens to the best of us. Look, they even have efectric lights.”

“Electric,” Luna corrected, before Harry could tell Ginny to fuck right off.

“This way,” the host said, and Ginny flashed Harry a grin before turning to follow.

The host brought them to a corner booth. This time, Malfoy was not already there. Harry lifted the sticky menu, but his attention was only half on the food and drink. Ginny and Luna had sat together again, and he couldn’t stop being aware of the empty space next to him.

While Ginny and Luna discussed the menu, Harry stared in silence at his.

Luna said, “What do you think you might get?”

“Uh…”

“They have a really good cashew pilaf. And the meatless loaf is very tasty, if you don’t mind that the garbanzo beans, oatmeal, and walnuts weren’t soaked first. I asked the chef once. It’s good to limit your intake of beans, nuts, and grains that haven’t been soaked. I told her that, though Draco says he doubts they’d change their recipe, even if I were to come and provide them non-magical-style evidence. It’s not feasible for such a large restaurant. That’s too bad, really. It has a really nice tomato gravy, though, and it’s filling.”

Ginny, smiling, rested her forehead against Luna’s shoulder.

Harry was ready to say “fuck it” and ask if they had cottage pie when Malfoy showed up—in his hat with the feather.

Harry had fully intended to stand up and let Malfoy take the inside part of the booth, but before he could move, Malfoy said, “Budge over. I’m not going to crawl over you.”

The image of Malfoy crawling over him short-circuited his brain, and mutely, Harry slid over.

Malfoy sat, seeming completely unaware of the effect he was having on Harry. “Have you ordered yet?”

“No,” Ginny said. “Harry was just about to tell us what he was thinking of getting.”

“Too many good things to choose from,” Harry said, with a tight smile. Malfoy’s elbow was nearly touching his on the table, but he felt like if he moved it away, the movement would be too obvious. “Luna, would you order for me?”

At that, Ginny’s eyes widened. But before Harry could interpret the expression, the waiter appeared.

“Nice hat,” was the first thing he said, looking at Malfoy.

Harry hated him immediately.

The waiter held out his hand, and Malfoy handed over the menu. He hadn’t even looked at it. “Mushroom risotto with the rosemary chicken breast,” he said, smoothly.

Ginny and Luna also ordered, and the waiter took their menus, too.

“And an IPA,” Harry remembered to put in at the last moment. When the waiter had turned away, he said, “Shut up,” before anyone could tease him for being predictable.

Ginny smiled hugely at Malfoy, who was sitting across from her, and said, “How are you feeling after your _exertions_ this morning? Sore? Drained? You expended a _lot_ of energy, especially near the end, there.”

“Low blow, Ginny.” Harry scowled.

“What do you mean?” she asked in a falsely sweet voice. “Malfoy did such a good job dispersing that swarm. He’d be understandably tired from it.”

“That _was_ an impressive use of that spell, Draco. I’ve never seen it used like that before, but it makes sense. How are you feeling? The initial blast was so powerful, and you kept it going so long the second time.”

Malfoy did not look at Harry, but he didn’t have to. His amused attention on Harry was there in the way he held himself and in his smirk. “A little draining, but a Quick-Pick-Me-Up went a long way to restoring me. I’ll be back to full strength tomorrow.”

When the waiter came with their drinks a moment later, Harry accepted his gratefully. He decided he liked the man, after all.

Malfoy and Ginny continued to banter. Meanwhile, Harry sipped his beer and pledged to pace himself with it. He could not allow himself to get as hammered as he had at the previous pub night.

To pace himself—and to not watch Malfoy’s thumb rub circles in the condensation on his beer glass as he talked. Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“How’s your IPA?”

“Uh.” For a brief moment, Harry had no idea what Malfoy was asking. Then he remembered the drink in his own hands. He brought it to his mouth. The beer was fizzy and bitter. “It’s, um. It’s a little stronger than the other one. More of a grapefruit flavor?”

Malfoy looked vaguely impressed, eyebrow raising.

“Well, well!” Ginny exclaimed, holding a hand to her chest.

“Good job, Harry.” Luna beamed an encouraging smile at him. “But I’m not surprised, really. Draco is a good teacher.”

“Hear that, Potter?”

Harry took a long pull of his beer and fell into a surly silence as the conversation flowed over and around him.

By “pacing himself,” Harry had finished two-thirds of his drink before the appetizer arrived, and he could already feel the warmth and looseness in his limbs.

“It’s an onion blossom,” Luna said to Harry, as the waiter set down the plate. “A treat, since we exerted a lot of energy today. Especially you, Draco.”

Harry took the plate that Malfoy grinningly offered and loaded pieces of fried onion onto it. Something to balance out the alcohol sounded very good right now.

Luna and Ginny placed one little bowl of dipping sauce between them, which left the other for Harry and Malfoy. To _share._ Harry stared at it, trying to work out the logistics.

“Don’t be a baby,” Malfoy said, and dumped a large dollop of sauce onto his own plate. “Here. You can have the rest.”

Then he tore a piece of the onion off with his fingers, swirled it in the sauce, and popped it in his mouth.

Harry made himself very busy eating and drinking, keeping his eyes on his food.

When the waiter showed up to take the empty appetizer platter and asked Harry if he would like another beer, Harry wondered why he’d ever disliked the man at all. “ _Yes_ ,” he said, pressing his empty glass into the waiter’s hand.

The waiter turned to Malfoy. “Another for you, too?” he asked with a wink.

A _wink_.

Which is when Harry remembered why he hated him. Would hexing a non-magical break the Statue if the non-magical didn’t know what had hit him?

As he waited for his second round, he had to sit with no food and no beer and try not to stare at Malfoy balling a napkin and dabbing casually at his mouth while he talked to Ginny.

Luna leaned forward. “Are you all right, Harry? You’re being rather quiet tonight.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re just upset that Malfoy banished more fairies than you,” Ginny said. “ _And_ he came to your rescue.”

“I’m not upset,” Harry said, even as his face heated up. It was true, though. He wasn’t _upset_ —and that was the problem. He sensed Malfoy giving him a long look but avoided meeting his gaze.

Fortunately, the food came shortly after. Harry decided he was grateful for the waiter, even if he did want to hex him when the bloke looked at Malfoy. But why should Harry care, anyway? Let him wink at Malfoy and his stupid hat. It made no difference to Harry.

He looked at the plate of food the waiter handed him, and nearly said, _This isn’t mine_. Then he remembered he’d had Luna order for him.

“Wait,” he said. “What is this?”

“Steak a la tartare.”

“What?”

“Beef tartare.”

“Uh…is this all the way cooked?”

The waiter gave him a strange look.

“It’s raw,” Luna said.

“Oh. _Oh._ ” He handed the plate back to the server. “Can you fry that, please? Maybe put it on bread. Maybe with a bit of lettuce and tomato.”

“So, a burger.”

“Sure,” Harry said. “Also, another drink, please.”

“And you haven’t even finished the one you’re on,” Ginny said.

Harry responded by picking up his glass and draining it.

“ _Tsk_. Such plebeian tastes,” Malfoy muttered loud enough for only Harry to hear.

Malfoy, Ginny, and Luna tucked into their food. It took a few minutes for Harry to realize that Luna hadn’t said anything else since their meals had arrived. She stared at her food with an expression he hadn’t seen on her face since Hogwarts—a crease between her eyebrows, her mouth turned down.

And— _shit_. That was when Harry remembered just how he’d shoved his plate back into the waiter’s hand. The meal she’d ordered him.

He needed to apologize. But what could he say? _Sorry, I like my beef properly dead before I eat it?_

Shit shit.

Ginny leaned over and whispered something in Luna’s ear. Luna’s gaze flicked up to meet Ginny’s, and she cracked a small smile. She returned to eating with a slightly less determined look, but a quiet fell over their table.

“So,” Malfoy said. “What do you have planned next for Harry’s shadowing?”

Harry was annoyed at this—but also grateful because it perked Luna up.

“I was thinking you might want to try something non-magical, Harry. Electricians are in high demand, and you might be fascinated to learn about the non-magical equivalent to magic. Or you could go into package delivery.”

“Package delivery sounds nice,” Ginny said with a completely straight face. “You’d have to learn how to drive, though, Harry.”

“Package delivery,” Malfoy said, musingly.

The waiter arrived with Harry’s burger, and Harry busied himself with taking a large bite.

After a while, Harry lost track of the number of beers he’d had. He ordered a porter on his next go around, which elicited an impressed expression from Malfoy. With more beer, the burn of attraction became more bearable. Almost pleasant. He forgot why he’d been trying not to watch Malfoy. He liked watching Malfoy. He’d always liked watching Malfoy, hadn’t he? He’d just never noticed before how captivating it was to see Malfoy’s lips on a drink glass, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

He didn’t even mind Malfoy’s barbs and jabs. Why should he, as long as Malfoy murmured them so only Harry could hear? And Malfoy was full of shit, anyway. Harry remembered the way Malfoy had carefully protected his ice cream cone and taken Harry all the way to the top of Portland to eat it.

Then the conversation about Harry’s job shadowing looped back to Grimmauld Place and Harry’s plans to fix it up.

“Really, Harry,” Malfoy said, his eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “It’s like living in a mausoleum. A crypt. An above-ground catacomb.”

“Where the hell do you live, anyway, Malfoy? In the back of the larder in your shop?”

Ginny and Luna laughed.

Malfoy sniffed. He looked so much like his younger self in that moment. His hair was tousled (he’d lost the hat at some point; it was probably on the seat next to him) and the collar of his Muggle shirt was open at the collar again—and, all right, he looked _nothing_ like his younger self, but there was something about the expression on his face and the slight tilt of his chin upward that brought to mind the boy.

“I live in a very nice house, thank you very much.”

“Sure,” Harry said. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Malfoy gave a decisive nod. “All right, then.”


	18. Chapter 18

It _was_ a very nice-looking house.

“See?” Malfoy said, spreading his hands.

“I do. It is, indeed, a house. It even has a little porch with, ummm, a little garden and some hanging things—baskets. Windows. Very nice.”

Malfoy frowned.

The house _did_ look very nice in the late afternoon sun. Harry guessed it was late afternoon. Maybe it was evening. They’d been at the brewpub for quite some time. Long enough for Harry to have a hard cider after his last beer. Ginny said it was pear? It had tasted pretty sweet. Sweet and crisp and good. He’d told them that while licking the sticky remnants from his lips. Malfoy had frowned then, too, looking at his mouth. Like Harry wasn’t allowed to lick his mouth. Harry would lick his own mouth, thank you very much. He’d lick Malfoy’s mouth, too, to make a point, if Malfoy had told him to use a napkin. But Malfoy hadn’t. Harry had been disappointed about that.

“Shall we go in?” Ginny said. “The facade is nice, but I promise there’s more on the inside.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry said. “I’m happy to stand here and look at the facade all afternoon. Evening.”

“Dork.” Ginny snorted.

They had come via bus because it turned out Malfoy did not live too far from the Muggle pub. Oops. Non-magical pub. Harry had managed not to weave while walking. He thought he’d done a pretty good job of it, except Ginny had commented on the fact that he was weaving. Which, come to think of it, he kind of was, wasn’t he?

He steadied himself on the railing as he walked up the porch steps. No shame in using a handrail. That’s what it was there for.

Harry didn’t know what he expected when he walked inside. Maybe to walk through into the coffeehouse, or into the Manor, or the Slytherin common room. Of course, he didn’t. He walked into a light-filled sitting room constructed of darkly-stained woods and white and grey walls.

“It’s nice inside, too,” Harry said.

It was. The walls and honey-colored wood floors were very clean and modern-looking. A bit like the coffeehouse—except it felt like Malfoy’s home and not like the coffeehouse, so the resemblance sort of ended there. Maybe because of the smell—or the lack of it. Harry had come to associate the aroma of coffee with Malfoy, but the house did not smell like coffee.

“It doesn’t smell like coffee.”

“That may be because I do not make coffee at home. I only make coffee at work. You did see, didn’t you, Potter? Plenty of coffee machines at work. And as we established, I spend much of my time there.”

“Tosser,” Harry said.

“Oh, my god. Get out of the doorway, you two.”

They all moved a little further into the entryway. From here, Harry could see one of the windows of the sitting room was open, the view almost completely taken up by a half-wild-looking rose bush.

“Are you going to give Harry the grand tour, Draco?” Luna asked.

Malfoy gave Harry the grand tour.

“The living room,” he said, with a wave of his hand toward the sitting room. “The kitchen,” he said as he continued on, with a wave of the other hand. “Gas stove. Brushed steel. Behold and salivate.”

“Uh.”

“He’s very proud of his kitchen,” Luna said.

“I mean, it’s a nice kitchen? Very…brushed steel. With tiles on the wall there.”

“It’s called a backsplash, Harry.” Ginny’s eyes laughed.

“Very nice backsplash.”

Malfoy preened.

“Hey, do you have a dishwasher?” Harry asked, suddenly remembering.

“I do. It’s there.”

“Do you use it?”

Malfoy gave him a suspicious look. “Typically, yes.”

“Just curious,” Harry said, cheerfully.

Malfoy gave him another suspicious look but moved on down the hallway.

“The downstairs bathroom,” he said with a dismissive toss of hand. “And here is the library and the study.”

The library was, predictably, full of books. Not like Luna’s narrow maze of a library, but more like Hermione’s: neat shining wooden bookcases from floor to ceiling, books each nestled with their spines lining up.

“You really like books,” Harry said, as the realization came to him. “Like a proper— Like a proper book-lover.”

Malfoy fixed him with a dry look. “Really. And you don’t keep books just for show in your own home?”

Harry, remembering the flying books he’d left knocking about the library in Grimmauld, made a face. Were the books still flying around? Possibly, unless the magic had worn itself out, or maybe they’d got through the window and were off terrorizing Muggles in London. Oops. Well. He hadn’t heard from Ron and Hermione, which he was bound to, if anything like that had happened.

“I see the expression on your face, and I’m afraid to know. Forget I asked.”

“Best for all of us. Thanks.”

“If you’d like to move on, I will show you my pride and joy.”

“We already saw the dishwasher?”

“What is with you and my dishwasher?”

“He means his study,” Ginny said in a stage whisper.

“Yes, yes, the study.”

Ginny stifled a laugh, but Harry couldn’t keep a snort from escaping.

“You only laugh because you are jealous,” Malfoy said, loftily. “You wish you had a study as nice as mine.”

At first glance, it looked like a second library. Harry’s idea of a library, anyway: there were a few books on the shelves, but they were outnumbered by other objects. Some things he remembered from the Dursley’s home and from the home and garden magazines Petunia had kept. Some sort of metal cage shaped like a human head, filled with screws. An object that was a single metal gear. A comb with very long tines. A record-player type thing with a big bell.

Malfoy stood watching Harry, expectantly, as if waiting for something. Luna, too.

“Um. You’ve got a lot of Muggle things? Non-magical things. Is that what I’m supposed to notice? I’m not very good at this game.”

Ginny laughed.

Malfoy sniffed. “They’re not just non-magical things.”

He walked over to the record-player type thing with the big bell. (“It’s a grammar phone,” Luna whispered.) Harry expected Malfoy to turn a knob or something, but instead he tapped it with his wand. Rich, clear music began to play around them, as if coming from the air itself.

“That’s not non-magical,” Harry said.

“It’s enchanted,” Luna said.

Ginny glanced around the room. “It all is.”

“But they’re Muggle—non-magical—objects. It’s illegal. Isn’t it?” Harry looked at Ginny, who snorted.

“Not here, they’re not. They’re legal here.”

The music soared. Some kind of classical piece. It lent a ridiculous grandeur to the moment. And it _was_ pretty grand, with the light coming through the window and gleaming off polished brass and wood. Malfoy gazed around at it with the air of a proud parent.

“You should show him the beauty micrometer, Draco. Harry, you haven’t seen one of these before, have you? Daddy couldn’t believe it when he saw it.”

“Wait. Xeno—” Harry stumbled over trying to say the rest of Luna’s dad’s name. He gave up; Luna would forgive him for having a twisted tongue. “Xeno was here?”

“And my dad,” Ginny deadpanned.

Arthur. Harry’s eyes widened at the thought.

“Oh, yes. He went absolutely apeshit over all of it.”

Harry’s brain was still stuck on the thought of Arthur here—in Oregon, and in Draco Malfoy’s house. Arthur here, barely containing his excitement while Malfoy drawled on. And Molly, gawping around Malfoy’s kitchen.

“Here, Potter. Look,” Malfoy said, and showed Harry the head-shaped torture device with the screws, which turned out not to be a torture device but some kind of beauty-measuring contraption. It didn’t make any sense to Harry, really. He got distracted from Malfoy’s explanation by the thought that Aunt Petunia would have used something like this, and Harry didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing that she’d never been introduced to it. 

“It’s kind of fun, Harry. Would you like to try it on?”

“Uh, that’s all right Luna. I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Shall we finish the tour?” Malfoy asked, with a pleased, indulgent tone.

Harry had the feeling Malfoy would have been happy to show off his collection for the rest of the afternoon—evening? Harry glanced at the clock. Evening. But Ginny said, “Yes, please,” and they moved on down the hall to the back door, which led into the back garden. 

The garden was surprisingly large—a long space that stretched back a distance that was at least as long as the house itself—and basic in design. No topiary for adult Malfoy. No lawn. Instead, a path of white, chunky gravel traveled down the middle of the garden. The rest of the ground was covered in bark chippings. There were rose bushes, a large waxy-leaved camellia, and ivy that crept over the fence. A tall tree spread shade over much of it. 

“No Wizard Space?” Harry asked, as they made their way back toward the front of the house.

“No Wizard Space,” Malfoy agreed.

“Except his clothes closet.”

“Weasley, you are banished to the bench of shame for the remainder of the evening.”

Luna gasped. “Not the bench of shame!”

“Are you sure about that, Malfoy?” Ginny said. “You do remember what happened last time, don’t you?”

“Oh! Oh. No. Certainly not. We’ll have to come up with a new shame location. I had to spell the scratches out of my window after that. I haven’t the energy for repair work now.”

They ended up in the living room, where the fireplace lay dormant for the summer. Harry claimed a squashy armchair that was very comfortable.

“As I am playing the part of gracious tour guide and host, may I offer any of you drinks?”

Malfoy reminded Harry sharply of Lucius in that moment, which shouldn’t have been funny, but Harry chuckled anyway. “Yes,” he said.

Malfoy returned with a little tray bearing four empty glasses and a collection of bottles. Harry accepted the cider Malfoy offered him but declined the glass. What was the point, when he could drink from the bottle? That level of fussiness was so _Malfoy_. Harry grinned around the mouth of the bottle.

The cider was sweet and tart, some kind of berry thing, or so he gathered from the picture on the label. “This is good,” he said. “What are you having?”

“Sparkling pomegranate juice,” Luna said. “It’s very good.”

“Same,” Ginny said.

Malfoy held up his glass. “Coffee stout. Why, are you ready for another round of taste-testing?”

“It’s fun,” Harry said. “I like taste-testing. I never knew there were so many bitter and sour flavors. You’ve opened my eyes, Malfoy. My tongue. My mouth? You’ve awakened me.”

Ginny choked into her bottle.

“Would you like to taste it, Harry?” Luna said, and passed over her glass.

“Yeah, thanks.” Harry accepted it from her and took a sip of the reddish liquid. “Bubbly and sweet. I like it. Is there any alcohol in this?”

“No. It’s just juice and soda water.” She accepted the glass back from him.

“Oh. You’re both drinking something without alcohol. Are Malfoy and I the only ones drinking?”

Harry felt like this should mean something. What should this mean? He stared into his bottle for a few moments, but no answer was forthcoming, so he shrugged and took another drink of cider.

While Malfoy had them as his captive audience, he showed off his computer, which was connected to the large screen above the fireplace. Thank goodness computers had not been that large when Harry was a kid. Dudley would have been crying for one, and if Petunia and Vernon had got him one, his boasting would have been even more insufferable.

Malfoy was boastful about it, himself. But Harry didn’t mind it so much in Malfoy. There was something funny about the way Malfoy gestured animatedly and waxed poetic about the Internet and recipe searches. Harry wasn’t the only one to think so. The girls stifled laughter.

“Hey,” Harry said, looking around the room. “Those paintings. They’re the same as the things in your coffeehouse. The photograph of the big rock on the beach and that water spout. The black and white ones. These are the same things, right? Except in color.”

“Haystack Rock and Thor’s Well,” Luna said. “They’re very nice, aren’t they? Draco has a lot of nice artwork. He’s collected it from all over Oregon. A lot of artists live here.”

“Do you want to show him your etchings?” Ginny said, giggling.

“Oh, they’re lovely. You should, Draco.”

Malfoy gave Harry a look over the rim of his glass. “Only if he wants.”

Harry blinked. “Uh, sure?”

Malfoy smirked. “Maybe later. Potter, do you know anything about the Oregon coast?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“These are very popular tourist attractions. Non-magical tourist attractions. They’re very beautiful places. There’s a reason they’re popular.”

“Draco visits them often,” Luna told Harry.

Malfoy’s cheeks—surprisingly—turned pink. This fascinated Harry. He glanced again at his cider. What was in it? Because. Because he had never been _this_ fascinated by Malfoy’s cheeks. Had he? Maybe they’d never turned pink before. It was a very good color on Malfoy.

“All right,” Ginny said, a little loudly and a little abruptly. She sat forward. “Time to call it a night. Thanks for the drink, Draco. Night, Harry!”

“Yes, thank you, Draco. So good to spend time with you today. It’s always nice having you for the whole day.” She pressed a light kiss to Malfoy’s cheek. “Good night, Harry.”

“Uh,” Harry said, still ensconced in his chair.

Ginny met Malfoy’s eye as she placed her empty bottle on the little drink tray. Malfoy made a weird expression at her, eyes widening and narrowing at the same time. Before Harry could try to make out what was going on, Luna was bending to give him a kiss, too.

“Have a good time, Harry. Don’t forget to drink a Sobering Potion before Apparating home.”

“Okay…”

Ginny gave him a grin and a jaunty wave, then she and Luna were gone, leaving him alone with Malfoy. Harry wasn’t sure why they had left him, considering he was going back to the same place as them. Wasn’t he?

He was still puzzling over that when another thought occurred to him.

“You live alone.”

“Yes… A correct observation.” Malfoy’s voice sounded a shade defensive.

“No. I just expected…”

“What?”

Harry shrugged, picking at the label on the bottle. “A wife and children, I guess.” He made a face. “I guess it sounds weird when I say it.”

Malfoy gave a shrug of his own. “I don’t mind children. They might be nice. But not a wife.”

“Oh…kay?”

“I’m gay.”

“Oh.”

“Problem, Potter?”

“No. Not at all. I.” He could feel the heat working its way up his neck. “I know gay people. I was just. Surprised.”

Harry felt strange, felt especially aware of his body. It was probably the alcohol. Mostly the alcohol. Maybe?

“Er…” Harry had no idea what else to say. Malfoy was watching him incredibly intensely. Malfoy, who was gay, and who lived alone in this house, where Harry was visiting with him. Alone.

A thought came to him, and Harry grasped it like a lifeline. “Ginny mentioned something about etchings?”

Malfoy threw back his head and laughed.

“Yes, I can show you my etchings.”

Harry felt like he’d missed something, but he was very drunk now, so it didn’t bother him.

“Come on,” Malfoy said, with an expression Harry couldn’t quite read, but made his stomach heat. “They’re upstairs in my bedroom.”


	19. Chapter 19

The nicest part of being taken upstairs by Malfoy was Malfoy preceding Harry up them. In fact, if Harry hung back a few steps—which he certainly did because he could not allow an opportunity like this to pass, untaken—if he hung back a few steps, his eyes were level with Malfoy’s arse.

It was a very nice arse. And Harry got an even closer view of it when Malfoy swayed precariously. Harry’s hands went up and caught Malfoy by the backs of his thighs. His very hot, firm thighs.

“Are you drunk?” Harry giggled. ( _Laughed._ He didn’t giggle.)

Malfoy grabbed the banister. “No drunker than you.”

Harry grinned and gave Malfoy’s thighs a little push. “You’re drunk.”

Harry thought that, perhaps, he might not touch anything for the rest of the night—or as long as he continued to feel the ghost of Malfoy’s tight, denim-clad flesh against his palms, which might be forever. Doomed never to use his hands again. Happily doomed. 

He reached the top of the stairs and was disappointed to be level with Malfoy again. Granted, the back of Malfoy’s head and shoulders were not bad to look at. It was just that he’d already seen quite a bit of them, but not as much of his fine backside. Harry would have to find more excuses to walk behind Malfoy on stairs.

The upstairs hallway was just as nice as the front and ground floor of the house (but it was different from the “nice” of Malfoy’s arse; that was a whole other category). There were some little paintings and photographs and nature-type things and Muggle—non-magical—things on the walls, but Malfoy didn’t point out any of the rooms or things up here. He took Harry straight past a bathroom (this must have been the “upstairs bathroom”) to a door at the end of the hall.

“Oh!” Harry said, stopping in the threshold. He’d spotted the big bed against the far wall, and a familiar citrusy smell hung in the air. This was Malfoy’s bedroom.

“What, Potter? Honestly. They’re in here.” As he spoke, he gave a lazy wave of his wand, and a lamp came on at the other side of the room.

Harry stared around. It was…a bedroom. A comfortable-looking bedroom in the same darkly-stained woods, with pale walls. It was very sensible-looking, except it did have some kind of spherical chandelier thing hanging from the center of the ceiling. It hung above the bed and reminded Harry of something from Astronomy class with its little models of planets in orbit (they moved slowly) and a single unlit candle suspended in the center. Harry wanted to make fun of Malfoy for it, but he couldn’t seem to open his mouth. 

“Really, Potter. I would say nothing in here bites, though that would be a lie. Nothing in here bites if you don’t want it to. That’s a _bit_ more accurate.”

Harry sidled past a chest of drawers and an armoire to the side of the bed, where Malfoy stood, watching him.

Malfoy smirked. “ _There_ , Potter,” he said, and pointed at the wall. 

Harry pulled his gaze away from Malfoy. There, hanging from the wall, were a number of small, framed etchings. 

Harry had seen etchings before—those sort of…ink drawing things. Lots of lines and little details. He just hadn’t known what they were called. Though, he’d never seen etchings like these before. Some were macabre, some were carnal, featuring naked bodies in positions Harry had never seen people in. The forms in the etchings moved. Bending, writhing, crying out silently—but not, Harry thought, in pain.

Harry was mesmerized by the etching of two men having sex. He _thought_ they were having sex. Perhaps it was some kind of glorious torture.

“Lovely, aren’t they?” Malfoy said from behind him.

Harry tore his gaze away. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

Malfoy watched him carefully with too-bright eyes. Harry’s heart raced.

He looked back at the etching, trying not to be aware of how _close_ Malfoy was standing. Malfoy, who was gay. And showing him sex drawings in his room, which was suffused with his scent.

“But what are they doing? Are they…?” Harry couldn’t make himself say what it looked like they were doing.

“Is that man having his ass eaten out by the other fine gentleman there? Yes. He is. Why, Potter. You’re _blushing_. I think I have never seen you so red.”

“Of _course_ I’m blushing. They’re doing—that. They’re doing that in your bedroom where you sleep.”

One eyebrow rose to a peak. “What? Have you never tried?” His voice dropped to a murmur. “It feels really good.”

Malfoy looked predatory. He was enjoying this. Harry shouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, but he was dizzy and his mouth was dry. He couldn’t think straight. “Ah, no. I’ve never tried.”

“That’s a pity. Though I suppose you’re too pure for that sort of… _vulgarity_.”

“What?” Harry said, prickling. “Offering to give a practical demonstration?”

“Are you asking for one?”

Harry’s mind went blank. When he came to awareness an instant later—pulse racing—his mouth formed the words, “You _wish_ I’d kiss your arse, Malfoy.”

With a smirk, Malfoy said, “I wouldn’t mind that. Although, I was thinking of kissing yours.”

Harry forced a laugh. “That’d be the day.”

“I think you’d love it,” Malfoy said, edging closer. “Because you love people kissing your ass, don’t you? The Saviour.”

“Only you, Malfoy.”

“With pleasure,” Malfoy said, very close now, pushing into his personal space, close enough to hear him breathe.

Harry’s own breathing hitched.

“Hmmm.” Malfoy exhaled against Harry’s neck, and Harry smelled the sweet, fruity aroma of stout. Malfoy’s cheek was close enough to Harry’s that Harry could feel the warmth off of him, but he didn’t actually touch Harry.

“Get on the bed,” he whispered.

Harry got onto the bed. What was he doing? He nearly laughed. But the mattress was so incredibly soft, it nearly swallowed him. He was sinking and sinking and sinking. And Malfoy was kneeling on the edge of it—now climbing onto it—looming over him.

Malfoy pulled out his wand and wordlessly banished Harry’s clothes. Harry yelped. His hands flew to his crotch to cover himself, but his dick was standing up, and his fingers knocked against it. A jolt of pleasure and shock went through him. His head spun—from the blood rush, from the alcohol.

“Fuck,” he whispered. 

Malfoy’s gaze dropped, and his breath hissed. “Look at you. You’re so hard. You _do_ want it.” He met Harry’s eye again, and his pupils were huge in the dimness of the room. Above his head, the chandelier’s little planets orbited slowly.

Harry blanked on his complete vocabulary. He could only breathe—fast and shallow. Malfoy— _Malfoy_ , with his so-familiar pale hair falling over his features—looked down and gently pulled Harry’s hands away from where they’d been wrapped loosely over his erection.

“There we go,” Malfoy murmured. “ _Hello_ , there.”

Harry made a disbelieving snort of laughter, then gasped as Malfoy ducked down and licked a stripe next to his cock. Harry felt the rasp of five o’clock shadow against it.

 _Merlin_. He was— God, Malfoy was—

Malfoy pulled away and ducked in again to lick along the other side. His breath was warm and moist over Harry’s skin. 

“ _Ah!_ Oh, my god. Are you really— Are we really—”

“Mmm? Are we really going to what?”

Malfoy’s clear, cultured voice cut through the shock fogging Harry’s brain. It was _so real_. He was _right there_. 

“Malfoy,” he said, to hear it out loud.

“Potter.”

“Don’t— Don’t stop.”

Malfoy smiled. “And to think: I haven’t even started.” His hot hands smoothed down Harry’s thighs, squeezing, thumbs grazing the most sensitive skin of the inner thighs. 

“Fuuuuuck,” Harry hissed.

“Spread your legs.”

Harry did. A moment later, he felt the prickle of an unexpected Cleaning Charm, and squawked. Then Malfoy’s tongue was on him again, and Harry’s protest was forgotten. Malfoy traced around the base of Harry’s cock and nipped his way to the crease of Harry’s inner thigh, pausing to murmur things like, “The sounds you’re making—you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” and “I can’t wait to taste you properly.” They sounded almost conversational, almost like Harry should reply—but Harry could only remember the words “ _god_ ” and “ _Merlin_.”

Malfoy palmed Harry’s balls and lifted them to lick the tender skin behind them. Down, toward Harry’s arse, using his other hand to push aside Harry’s cheek. Somehow, the _lightest_ touches of his tongue felt the most intense against the stretched skin. The sensations traveled through Harry—to his groin, to his toes.

“ _Ah ah ah!_ ”

Several times, Malfoy came close to licking the most vulnerable part of Harry, but he always skirted around, away. He pushed Harry’s arse cheeks wide with both hands, and his mouth went everywhere except the places Harry most wanted it.

Harry was _dying_. He realized he was babbling half-incoherently and begging Malfoy. Begging Draco Malfoy to kiss his arse. He laughed at himself, then gasped as Malfoy trailed his tongue close—sending tingles of surprise and pleasure through Harry—close, close—and over his hole.

Harry keened. 

Malfoy licked him again, again. Then he used his whole mouth to _suck_ , and Harry made a noise he’d never made before. Malfoy rumbled against him, pulled him closer, began to eat him out in earnest.

Meanwhile, Harry’s cock bobbed. Harry became aware of it and freed a hand from where he’d been clutching the bedding, intending to grasp it.

Malfoy reached up and batted his hand away. Harry made a noise of protest. Malfoy grunted in reply—it sounded like “ _no_ ”—and pinned each of Harry’s hands to the bed with his own. 

A thrill went through Harry. He tugged—but not hard. He liked the feel of Malfoy trapping him too much. _Far_ too much. He was almost disappointed when Malfoy took his hands away to support Harry’s hips again. But Harry could still feel the ghost of his weight on them, and didn’t try moving them again. He twisted his hands in the duvet.

All the while, Malfoy licked and sucked.

Harry was nearly crying from pleasure. He couldn’t control the sounds. Malfoy moaned in wicked imitation of him and dug his nails in, bright points of pain-pleasure against Harry’s arse.

He began to fray.

Then Malfoy pulled back. Harry was dazed, crazed. Malfoy loomed over him, mouth spit-shiny and swollen, and smirked.

“Look at you, coming apart. Practically begging. Let me hear you.”

“Please.”

Malfoy touched a finger to the skin next to Harry’s hole. Harry felt the sensation all the way through him. _Shit_. Was he…? But Malfoy only circled, circled lightly as he said, “You can do better than that. Beg like you really want it. Or do you not want it?”

“No! I do! Please! Oh! _Fuck_. Malfoy. Please. _Shit_. Oh my god, will you please. Please.”

Harry’s heart raced. He didn’t know if he was begging Malfoy to put his finger in, or what. But god, he actually _wanted_ it. He wanted to— And he wanted Malfoy to be the first one to do it.

“Fuck. Fuck. Please. Malfoy. Merlin. Oh. Oh my— _Please_. Ah! _Shit!_ Ah!”

“Hmm. Possibly acceptable,” Malfoy said, and surprised Harry again not by pressing his finger in but ducking down to resume licking Harry’s sensitized skin. Harry relaxed into his ministrations, un-tensing muscles he hadn’t realized he’d been holding tight.

It was in that moment, as Harry had just relaxed, when Malfoy put his _tongue_ in.

Harry squeaked and clutched the sheets. Didn’t know what to do with himself. Malfoy hitched Harry’s hips up, and Harry squeaked again at Malfoy’s strength.

Then Malfoy narrowed his tongue to a point and began to tongue-fuck him in earnest.

Malfoy. _Malfoy’s_ tongue, pushing in and out of him, as if— _God_. This was— He spared a single, fleeting thought for his teenage self and what he would think of himself right now. He would have barked a hysterical laugh, only he couldn’t because it felt _so good_.

He turned his head on the pillow, and his nose pressed into it, giving him the concentrated scent of Malfoy: citrus and something woodsy and something indescribable that made Harry bury his nose deeper and take a deep breath.

Malfoy clenched Harry’s arse and moaned into him. 

An alarming frisson of pleasure shot through him. He gasped. “Shit. I’m gonna come.” He lifted his hand to touch his cock, then remembered himself and flung it back down.

Malfoy moaned against him again.

That did Harry in. The pressure that had been building in him surged and then released in a rush—cock untouched.

Harry blinked up at Malfoy, who looked completely debauched. He stretched over Harry and propped himself up with one elbow. He used his other hand to undo his trouser button and pump his cock over Harry.

“God, I can’t believe you came on my tongue, you filthy fuck,” he gasped.

Dazed, Harry watched him—was completely mesmerized by that strong hand stroking himself off. The same sure movements he used when kneading.

“I’m gonna come all over you, Potter— Fuck, I’m gonna cover you—”

Malfoy’s sure movements sped up, became jerkier, his grip tighter.

“ _Shit_. Look at you— I’m gonna— I’m—”

Malfoy shuddered, spine curling, hand stripping over his cock in long pulls as he added to the slippery mess already covering Harry’s belly and chest.

Harry felt dirty, but he _loved_ it. And—fuck—Malfoy’s face was right there, mouth open and panting. Harry gave in and clutched Malfoy’s hair and kissed him.

Malfoy tasted like musk and salt. He made a surprised noise, then leaned into it. Then he was licking into Harry’s mouth and thrusting his tongue in obvious echo of what he’d done to Harry’s arse, and the sensation went straight to Harry’s arsehole, and—Merlin—he was going to get hard all over again.

Malfoy pulled away. He flipped back his hair with a snap of his head and gazed down at Harry with eyes that were sated, ravenous. “Would you look at you,” he purred.

Harry had lost his command of language completely, but that was fine because Malfoy didn’t seem to expect a reply. He groped for his wand and murmured Cleaning Charms over both of them, then flopped down next to Harry. 

Harry stared up at the ceiling, at the ridiculous chandelier with its slowly rotating planets. He did not move. He felt boneless, and raw where Malfoy’s cheek had rasped against him, and his arsehole tingled. He still wasn’t _quite_ sure what had happened, but it had been good. Very, very good. Possibly one of the best things ever to have happened to him. And it had been with Malfoy.

“You—” Harry said, voice hoarse, nearly unrecognizable “—are really, really good at that.”

“Mmm. Thank you.”

“Just. Wow.”

“I still can’t believe you hadn’t done that.”

“It’s not something Ginny and I tried,” Harry said, and knew he sounded defensive. _It wasn’t something I knew was possible_ , he didn’t add. “And…it never came up with anyone else.”

“Potter.” Malfoy’s voice was sharp. Harry could sense Malfoy turning his head to look at him, could feel the incredulous stare. “I’m not your first man.”

“Um.”

“Holy shit.” Malfoy propped himself up on an elbow. “You’re not telling me that I took the Saviour’s gay cherry? Wait. How long have you even known?”

“For a while,” Harry muttered. Well, it was true. It wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed how attractive men were since—since Hogwarts, probably. Malfoy didn’t need to know that he’d only really started to suspect recently.

“Oh, my god,” Malfoy said, lowering himself back down. “I can’t believe it.”

“Why? How long have _you_ known?” 

There was a long, wobbly pause. “Since— A long time.”

An unexpected stab of jealousy pierced Harry. “Who was your first?”

“No one you know.”

Harry couldn’t say anything. An ugly feeling filled his chest, and he wrestled with it. 

A long moment of silence passed.

“Potter?”

Malfoy’s hand found Harry’s on the bed. His thumb brushed Harry’s knuckles. 

He hitched up on an elbow and studied Harry with an intense expression. It was different to the hunger from before. Harry’s breath caught. He couldn’t read Malfoy’s expression, had no idea what to expect from him. Even when Malfoy leaned down, Harry didn’t know whether he’d…headbutt Harry or…

Malfoy kissed him. It was softer than their last kiss, and brief. No tongue. Just Malfoy’s moist lips and breath. 

“Did you like them?” he murmured, against Harry’s mouth.

“…what?”

“The etchings.”

Harry huffed a laugh and relaxed his head back against the pillow, surrounded by Malfoy’s scent and warmth. “They creep me out. But yeah. I liked them," he said. "I liked them very much.”


	20. Chapter 20

Harry came downstairs to the sound of voices. Ginny’s and—someone who wasn’t Luna, but familiar. The familiarity hit Harry strangely, unexpectedly, with a pang of surprise. He went into the kitchen.

“There he is!” Ginny said. She turned in her seat, grinning, and gave his rumpled form a leering once-over.

A laptop sat in front of her on the kitchen table. And on the screen of the laptop were Hermione and Ron.

He stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. “Oh.”

“Harry!” Hermione smiled.

“Hey, mate,” Ron said.

“Hey.” He ran a hand through his hair. Despite the Sobering Potion he’d taken the night before, he’d still woken with a bit of a headache and a case of dry mouth, and everything was blurred around the edges. “How have things been?”

“We’re fine. How are you? How’s your trip been? We hadn’t heard from you.”

Harry had a weird feeling, as if suddenly colliding with reality. “It’s fine. I’ve been fine.”

“Ginny was telling us about your job shadowing adventures,” Hermione said, with a little smirk.

“Great,” he said, voice dry. Then he looked around to make sure Luna wasn’t in evidence.

Ginny snorted.

“How are— How are things there?” It was hard for him to ask the question for some reason.

“They’re fine. Did you know the books in the library were flying around? The neighbors were calling the Muggle police because of the noise. But Arthur got hold of the case, and we disenchanted them. Harry, why didn’t you tell us about them?”

“Er…”

“No bother. We’ll talk about it properly when you get home.”

“I told you,” Ron said, leaning toward the screen. “When Mum heard about what you plan with Grimmauld, she was ready to head over right then. Had her mop and everything.”

“We’ll help you get it sorted, Harry. Ron said you made a list of things that need to be done? Could you owl that? Maybe we could start looking at it.”

There was a short scuffle on the other side of the screen, though Harry almost wondered if he imagined it because Hermione never looked away from the camera. Her face expression briefly pinched. Then she said, “You know? Never mind. You’re on holiday. You can show us when you get home. Speaking of which, do you need us to meet you at the Portkey office? You shouldn’t Apparate after a big jump like that.”

“Ask her how she knows,” Ron put in.

“Oh, shut it, Ronald,” Hermione said, cheeks reddening. There was another scuffle, though this time there was a small, fond smile on her face. “ _Anyway_. We’ll be happy to pick you up. You are still coming back on Saturday, right? Let us know if you plan to reschedule. You have up to 48 hours to call without a penalty charge. Ron’s been keeping an eye on Grimmauld, so you don’t have to worry about it. Molly’s even offered to start cleaning before you get back. Just basic things.”

“Oh. No.” His mind raced. Saturday was less than a week away. He hadn’t realized so much time had passed already. His thoughts went to Ginny and Luna and the farm, then came to Malfoy and stayed there. Malfoy and the night they’d had.

He realized there’d been a long beat of silence, and everyone was looking at him. “I’ll return on Saturday. Yeah.”

“All right. Let us know if you change your mind.” Hermione gave him one of her unreadable looks. He sensed something being unsaid. But maybe he was imagining it. He still felt off-kilter. 

It occurred to him then to wonder if she and Ron had known about Malfoy living in Oregon, too. Surely it would have come up in their visits to see Ginny and Luna? They had to have known, if even Arthur had been to Malfoy’s to visit. Was Harry the only one who hadn’t?

Hermione and Ginny said goodbye, leaving Ron to tell Harry a few things that had happened at the Auror office recently. Then he signed off. Harry wasn’t quite sure what to do with the computer, so he left it there. He made toast with tea, which cleared his head marginally, and went outside.

He found Luna by the barn. “Good morning, Harry!” she said. She waved her wand, and the half dozen buckets hovering behind her lined themselves up on the ground next to her. “Did you sleep well?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“That’s good to hear. Do you have plans for the day? There’s a very kind man who runs a non-magical bicycle shop in town. Do you know anything about bicycles? I thought you might be interested in learning.”

“Oh. That’s a nice thought. But I thought I might see some more of the city. You know.”

To his relief, she brightened. “You should! Do you need company?”

“No, no. I mean, keep doing what you’re doing. I’m just going to wander around and see the sights.”

As he changed into something more presentable in his room, it hit him how easy that had been to decline Luna’s job shadowing opportunity. Maybe that was all he’d needed to do from the beginning: tell her the truth. Huh. 

He found himself scrutinizing the fit of his jeans—wishing he knew how to Transfigure clothes—and huffed at himself. 

Out of habit, Harry Apparated to the alley near Malfoy’s coffee shop. He realized it when he stepped onto the pavement and looked down the street to see the familiar big windows. He paused, then turned and walked in the other direction.

Not that he was avoiding Malfoy. He wasn’t _avoiding_ him. It was just…his thoughts were still jumbled, and he needed them not to be so jumbled when he saw Malfoy again.

He walked a while down unfamiliar streets till he came to one that was more familiar, and he realized he’d come to one of the magical alleys—the one with the hat shop. He immediately dismissed the thought of visiting Sophie and the hats. Maybe sometime before he left, he would go in and say goodbye—but not when he risked getting sucked into making sales.

He passed the cafe and the wand boutique and the wizarding wireless shop, and came to the end of the alley, where there was a little coffee shop. Harry had seen it on his previous trip to the alley but hadn’t gone in because the smell of Sophie’s burnt coffee had put him off the drink for the day—and he’d half-suspected Sophie had got the coffee in question from the shop.

But the smell as he pushed the door open wasn’t bad. The sound of a tinkling bell, like a cat collar’s, greeted him, followed by a chorus of meows.

Startled by a rush of movement to either side of him, Harry stopped dead in the doorway.

“Don’t mind them,” called a barista from the other end of the shop. “They like to see a new face.”

“Uh.” Harry looked from his right to his left, to the scores of yellow and green and blue eyes staring at him from inside picture frames.

They were paintings. Dozens of them. Many of the frames were empty, but that was probably because all of their occupants had gathered in the few near the front door.

“Hey, cats…” he said.

They meowed in reply.

Harry felt their gazes as he walked to the counter and put in his order.

“Brulee coffee? We have a salted caramel latte.”

“That’ll be fine, yeah.”

Harry felt restless as he waited for his order. After a few minutes, most of the cats dispersed. They gamboled around, passing in and out of frames. It reminded him unpleasantly of Umbridge’s office without the pink.

He sat with his drink and some kind of puff pastry horn with almonds. He didn’t _dislike_ cats, so once he saw past the similarity to Umbridge’s office, it was…pleasant. Ish. And the coffee was…okay. He hadn’t expected the “salted” to be quite so salty, but it was mostly palatable. It didn’t have the same body as Malfoy’s coffee, though, and it was harsher. _They load it with salt and sugar to mask the lower quality coffee_ , he could imagine Malfoy saying.

The quality of the pastry was a little better than that of the coffee. Mostly. He doubted it had been made that morning, though. It tasted slightly stale.

He pulled out his legal pad, the one with the notes about the repairs needed at Grimmauld. Before Apparating into the city, he’d dug it out of his bag from where it was hiding beneath a few pairs of forgotten pants and socks.

He stared at the list. The handwriting was his own, but it looked foreign. He shook his head, took a bite of slightly-stale pastry and began to make notes next to the items.

 _Rug stains (blood?)_ — Molly

 _Cursed (?) dolls_ — Bill

 _Othelia infestation??_ — Xeno

Hermione would be proud of him.

After a while, the meowing got to him. Several of the cats had gathered in the painting next to him and rubbed themselves against the frame.

“Go on! Get out of here. Go visit someone else,” he said. But the cats only crowded closer.

He gnawed on his pen for a few more minutes, trying to ignore them, then sighed, placed the coffee and pastry half-finished into the bin, and left the coffee shop.

A little while later, Harry found himself back at Knead. He hadn’t planned it. He’d just walked until he was standing in front of the door. And he couldn’t turn away because Malfoy was in the front window, making dough, and his gaze met Harry’s.

Malfoy looked exhausted. It struck Harry that he must have got up early to get to work—after a late night with Harry. Did he not have anyone to help him with the baking? He had to.

Inside, at his station, Malfoy faltered.

Harry gave a little wave, and stepped inside.

There was no queue this time of day. At the till, Heather smirked at him and handed him a number.

“We’ll bring it out to you.”

“But. I haven’t ordered?”

She smiled.

He tried to catch sight of Malfoy at his station by the window, but he couldn’t see around the tall case of baked goods in the way, so he took his usual seat in the corner. From there, he could see Malfoy’s back. It was hard to tell from the distance, but it seemed like Malfoy was moving more slowly than usual, without the same finesse.

A few minutes later, Heather brought him a brulee coffee, a bowl of mushroom soup, and a cheese scone.

“Hey,” he said. “Could I order another coffee? For Malfoy. Also, I didn’t pay for mine.” He held up his credit card.

She gave him an odd, amused expression and took the card.

Malfoy came over as Harry was just finishing up the scone. He carried a coffee cup in one hand. With the other, he held out Harry’s card.

As Harry took it, their fingers brushed. Harry’s gaze flickered over Malfoy’s face, but Malfoy’s expression didn’t change. He looked tired and pinched and amused.

“You don’t think I haven’t been downing caffeine all day?”

Harry pocketed his card. He shrugged, casually. “A little extra caffeine can’t hurt.”

“You really are something,” Malfoy said, but Harry was pleased when Malfoy took a drink from the coffee. His eyes crinkled at Harry over the rim.

Harry had a flashback of what those fingers—which were wrapped around the cup—had done to him last night. How those eyes had looked, eating him up. _Malfoy_ eating him up.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh. I know you’re working. Just thought I’d drop by to get my coffee fix”—he held up his own coffee cup—“and say that last night was amazing.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened.

Harry grinned at that. “Hey. Would you, um.” He scratched the back of his head. He was smiling hugely, and he had no idea why or how to stop. “Would you like to get together tomorrow? I’ll meet you after work.”

Malfoy took another long sip of his coffee. He stared at Harry. His cheeks were red.

“I’m off at two.”

Harry didn’t point out that he knew perfectly well when Malfoy was off of work.

“Brilliant,” he said. “Two it is.”


	21. Chapter 21

Technically Harry was done with his morning egg collection round, but the truth was, it was never over at the farm. He was cleaning the remnants of a late breakfast from the patio table when he spotted a little pink egg in a plant pot.

The egg was so small in his hand when he picked it up, so small and pink, like the blush of dawn against the clouds. He cupped it in one hand and levitated the dirty dishes into the kitchen, where he set Cleaning Charms on them and placed the egg in a carton in the fridge. It looked tiny in the compartment of the carton and very colorful next to the larger white and brown eggs.

Harry glanced at the clock. He had some time before he was supposed to meet Malfoy at the coffee shop. And why his stomach should do a flip-flop, he didn’t know. Well. Granted, it had been incredibly good sex. And—well, not that he expected a repeat performance, but he couldn’t discount that it was a possibility. That is. It was a possibility for Harry. If Malfoy—

Harry cleared his throat.

The house was empty and peaceful. The windows and back door were open, and a cool breeze moved through the kitchen, chased by a warmer one. Ginny was off teaching a summer day camp at the college. Luna had gone to tend animals and plants. Harry could go find her, but he had the urge to fly.

He headed upstairs to retrieve his borrowed broom and squeezed through the coats. He had come to enjoy the feeling of pressing through them to get inside, as if he were entering a separate corner of the world that was all his own. The bright morning sun shone in through the window and filled the space with light.

He stood on the balcony, looking down over the farm and the way the morning sun cut sharp shadows, the way it glinted from the trees. There was a feeling of spaciousness here that was different even from the Hogwarts grounds. It held a hint of mystery and an invitation to explore. A wildness, but a friendly one. The cheerful, half-feral gardens. The forest just beyond the golden fields, where the trees stood shoulder to shoulder, guarding and welcoming.

Harry looked, but the Erumpent had not yet begun to make its trip across the far field. Earlier, he’d heard the rattling of the Thunderbird, but it was silent now. The late morning lull had settled over the farm.

A swift movement caught Harry’s eye. The silver form of Luna’s Patronus streaked toward him. It bounded across the ground like a real hare and then took a giant leap into the air, galloping as it climbed toward him.

“Harry, come quickly. I need your help.”

Harry’s hand was already around the broom. He jumped onto it, kicked off from the balcony, and sped after the Patronus.

Luna waited for him near the edge of the forest and the Erumpent’s field, next to the faint oil sheen of the wards. She had told Harry that the wards kept anything not human from passing—mainly the Erumpent, though it limited the traffic of non-magical creatures, as well. Apparently, the Erumpent did not take kindly to coyotes and goats wandering into its field.

The Patronus dissipated in a shower of silver sparks as Harry descended. “Harry,” Luna said. “Thank you for coming.”

He hopped off the broom. It’d been a long time since he’d flown that fast; he was half breathless. “What’s going on?”

To his surprise, Luna crouched and looked at the ground near the base of the ward. “They’re trapped inside.”

Harry followed her gaze. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. He saw leaves and small herby plants—then, small slithering movements.

“A mother snake thought it would be a good idea to lay her eggs between the wards. There are two wards, with a small space between. It was actually quite smart of her, really. A very safe place for the eggs. But unfortunately the hatched snakes can’t easily leave.”

“Oh.” He saw them now. They were so small—no bigger than his thumb—and wiggling over each other. Every so often, they came in contact with one of the ward walls and turned sharply.

“They’ll starve if they don’t get out.”

“Can we…take down the wards?”

Luna shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t be best. We need a number of people to take them down and put them back up again safely. I’d rather not risk a fire.”

“Oh. Right. No. What about…making a hole in them?”

“Mmm, no. That would be more complicated than taking the entire ward system down. But there is a break built into the wards about half a mile south. Most of the small animals know to pass through that way, but hatchlings won’t know about it. I imagine they’re confused, having just been born.”

“Ah—yeah. I imagine they would be. So do you want me to guide them there?”

“Yes! Please.”

Not all of the eggs had hatched yet. Of those that had, some of the hatchlings had already started to wander in the wrong direction. Luna had tried her best to keep them in the same general area, but she didn’t speak Parseltongue, and she couldn’t direct any spells in between the wards.

“Hey, little ones,” Harry said. It’d been so long since he’d spoken Parseltongue, and the ability had ebbed since Voldemort had been defeated, so the words came out rusty and spitting. Luna had to help him get their attention by waving her fingers sinuously, and he suspected this was how she’d kept them mostly together in the first place.

Eventually, thanks to a combination of his rusty Parseltongue and Luna’s enthusiastic finger-waving, Harry and Luna managed to coax the tiny snakes into a wiggling group. Harry tried to convince them to wait while the other snakes hatched, but they were already dispersing, squirming in opposite directions. So he talked them into slithering down to the break in the wards while Luna waited with the remaining eggs.

It wasn’t a short journey, and he had to make it a total of four times. Each time he saw a little group of snakes off, he returned to where Luna was trying her best to keep the newest hatchlings contained and had to start the process all over. He also had to spend time convincing the stragglers to keep up, and locate any snakes that had wandered off from the nest before he could get to them.

At last, Harry bid the final group of hatchlings goodbye. He stood, brushing leaves and bits of vegetation from his knees. The urge to fly had left him, which was just as well because he should be seeing Malfoy soon. He accepted Luna’s hug of thanks and returned to the house.

He landed on the balcony and set the broom in its corner. Looking down at himself and the rumpled, dirt-smudged state of his clothes, he thought he could use a second shower and a change of clothes before he saw Malfoy.

He glanced at the clock. Did a double-take.

“Oh, fuck.”

It was after three. He’d been helping Luna for hours. He skipped the shower, Apparated straight to the alley as-is, and walked briskly to the shop.

The front window stood empty. The bell dinged as he pushed inside to the familiar scents of coffee and baked goods. He scanned the space but didn’t see Malfoy. His heart pounded from his near-jog from the Apparition point.

Someone different manned the till today, but they appeared to recognize him. “He left a while ago,” they said, before Harry could even ask.

Harry had known that. Of course he had. But his heart still leapt into his throat. He swallowed it back down with an effort. “Do you know where he went?”

“Home, I’d guess.”

“Right. Home. Of course. Thanks.”

He nearly Apparated on the spot, but he caught himself and began to stride toward the bathroom to Apparate from there—then thought better of getting Malfoy in trouble by “disappearing” in his coffee shop’s bathroom. So he returned to the alley and went from there to Malfoy’s house. He vaguely remembered the overgrown rose bush at the side of the house and aimed to appear behind it, though he didn’t have a clear picture of that spot in his head and nearly splinched himself.

“Shit,” he hissed, but his arm was fine, just a little pink from the close call.

The house was the same as before. Nothing had changed. But something about it made him pause before going up the steps, something that felt a little uninviting, a little disapproving. But it was nothing, of course. The house was just a house.

He knocked, feeling like an arse. A minute passed. And another.

Just as Harry lifted his hand to knock again, the door opened. Malfoy held himself back, face neutral. He was dressed in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

“Malfoy. I’m— Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem,” Malfoy said, but his eyes remained cool. He was so remote—so removed from his usual smirking, teasing person—that Harry was taken aback.

Although there was no reason for Harry to feel winded, he sounded breathless as he said, “I was helping Luna on the farm and lost track of the time.”

“It’s all right.”

Harry didn’t know what else to say. Words tumbled through his mind as he tried to come up with the right combination—the right thing to say to make Malfoy understand—because Malfoy still hadn’t opened the door for him and was looking at Harry like he didn’t recognize him.

“If that’s all, then I’ll see you later,” Malfoy said.

Harry bristled at the dismissal, then deflated just as quickly. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the door clicked quietly shut in his face.

***

That evening, Luna decided to bake bread.

The smell of it reminded Harry of Malfoy. Hell, the entire process reminded him of Malfoy—mixing the ingredients, kneading the dough, shaping it. Harry didn’t say anything about it. What was there to say? The smell of baking bread should not have made Harry feel bad. Thoughts of Malfoy should not have made Harry feel bad.

Ginny and Luna were moving effortlessly around each other in the kitchen again. Ginny asked Luna about Luna’s latest experiment with pickle recipes (“Mum is asking for the recipe when you’ve got it tweaked”), and Luna asked Ginny about what setup she needed for the next Quidditch camp on the farm. Harry hadn’t realized that Luna typically helped Ginny with the Quidditch camp, but she was well-versed in the equipment and even knew the names of frequent students.

“Take this out to the table, Harry?” Ginny said, handing him a platter of deviled eggs.

“Yeah. Sure.”

He brought it out to the table overlooking the garden. A breeze stirred up, bringing smells of rosemary and flowers, and he breathed in deep, trying to clear his head.

“All right. What happened between you two?”

Harry turned. Ginny stood with arms crossed, leaning in the doorway.

“What do you mean?”

“You were pretty cheerful yesterday for someone who didn’t get much sleep.”

Harry’s face heated, but he ignored it. “Why shouldn’t I be cheerful? I’m on holiday.”

“Exactly. Except you’ve been moping all evening.”

She didn’t blink. Neither did Harry, for a long moment. Then, he looked away. “It’s nothing. Don’t you need help bringing anything else out?”

“Did you and Malfoy have sex?”

“What?”

Ginny casually chewed on her thumbnail. “You were there awful late.”

“Merlin, Ginny.” He rubbed a hand over his face.

“What? It’s a simple question.”

“Yes,” he said through his hand. “We did.”

“Knew it. You were practically glowing yesterday.”

“I was not!”

“Yes, you were. What happened today? You didn’t try shagging in the walk-in fridge, did you?”

“Wait. What? No. We made plans to get together today, but I missed picking him up after his shift. I apologized, and he closed the door in my face.” Now that Harry recounted the story, he felt his anger stir. He’d apologized. It had been an honest mistake. But Malfoy had shut the door on him.

So he didn’t understand why Ginny punched _him_.

“Ow! What the fuck, Gin?”

Her expression was incredulous. “You idiot! Did you expect him to open his arms and give you a big kiss?”

“Shit. No. I expected him to hear me out.”

“He’s Malfoy. He has an insecurity complex _and_ he’s proud, and you stood him up. Go back there. This time, shove your foot in the door.”

***

Harry rapped on Malfoy’s door, and kept at it until Malfoy finally flung it open, looking irritated.

“What, Potter?”

“Go out with me.”

A blink. “No.” Malfoy began to close the door, but Harry took Ginny’s advice and jammed his foot in the way.

Harry winced at the impact, then scowled. “I missed our date because I was helping Luna save baby animals. What did you expect me to do? Leave her hanging?”

Malfoy frowned. He didn’t say anything, but then, he wasn’t trying to actively crush Harry’s foot anymore.

“What are you doing now?” Harry said, hope rising.

“Getting ready for bed like a normal person.”

“Fuck off. It’s only half past eight. Go out with me.”

“ _Now?_ ”

Harry grinned. “Yeah. Now. We didn’t skip it. We just postponed it.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “I’ve already had dinner.”

“Me too,” Harry said, cheerfully.

“So what do you propose?”

What _did_ people do for fun in the evening, besides go out for food and drinks? It had been so long since Harry had gone out. Then he remembered his earlier desire to fly.

“We’ll go flying.”

“Excuse me?”

Harry smiled. “A night flight.”


	22. Chapter 22

Malfoy stared at him.

From down the pavement came the voices of pedestrians talking and laughing. A car passed. 

“At least let me in so I’m not standing here like a knob,” Harry said. He gave the door an experimental nudge with his foot. It moved slightly. Harry pushed it open and squeezed past Malfoy, who looked surprised, then consternated. 

“ _Some_ of us are not dressed for company,” Malfoy said, drawing himself up.

Harry gave him a once-over, from soft-looking t-shirt to bare pale feet. “Looks good to me. After the night before last, I kind of thought clothes were optional.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. It was fun, catching him off guard. 

Harry glanced around. He spotted a pair of trainers on a little rack near the door. He Summoned them. “These yours?”

“Yes—”

“Good.” Harry gave a twitch of his wand, and the shoes appeared on Malfoy’s feet.

Malfoy yelped. “What did you—?”

“Aurors,” Harry said, cheerfully. Hermione had taught him the spell after Ron complained that Harry took _ages_ to put his shoes on when they got an emergency call. 

“No socks!”

“You’ll live.” Harry stepped close and placed his hands on Malfoy’s hips. He was gratified by the dumbstruck expression on Malfoy’s face and by the way his gaze dropped to Harry’s mouth. Harry grinned and Apparated them both to the farm.

They landed behind the vegetable garden. Under Harry’s hands, Malfoy stumbled. Harry braced his hips, steadying him.

“Circe, Potter! More warning next time!” Malfoy hissed, but Harry noticed that he didn’t pull back right away.

Around them, full dark had almost completely fallen. The garden was a dark, tangled shadow. Beyond it, the lights of the house were visible through the silhouette of branches and leaves. Smaller pinpricks of light glinted among them. It was hard to tell which were stars and which were fairies until they happened to take flight. 

Harry could just make out Malfoy’s form in the gloom and grinned as Malfoy brushed back his ruffled hair and straightened his shirt.

“Prat,” Harry said, and couldn’t help the fondness in his voice. “You’re fine.”

“Hold on. I haven’t yet finished counting my body parts.”

Harry laughed and took off at a jog. 

The last of dusk lay thick ribbons of purple over the horizon, enough to see the jagged silhouette of the forest in the distance but not the uneven ground.

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

The stag burst from Harry’s wand and ran ahead, lighting a safe path. From behind him, Malfoy squawked his annoyance, but an instant later, Harry heard footsteps thudding in pursuit.

Harry laughed again.

They sped down the gently sloping hill and came to a panting stop at the broom shed. The silver stag reared and burst in a shower of stars.

“Just a moment,” Harry said, breathlessly. He cast a _Lumos_ and found two of the newer, faster brooms from the back of the shed, where Ginny kept them under extra protection. She would probably flay them both alive if they damaged the brooms. Harry gently prised them from their wards.

“No,” Malfoy breathed, in disbelief. He’d followed Harry inside, and the sound of his voice so close sent shivers over Harry.

“Just don’t crash it,” Harry said cheerfully, and pressed one of the brooms into Malfoy’s hand.

Malfoy’s eyes gleamed in the light of Harry’s _Lumos_. His lips pressed together. His hand closed around the broom.

They stepped outside. Harry looked up at the sky and thought about the invitation he’d felt from the forest and the land to explore. It was still there, still tugged at him. But the breeze felt playful, and the pull to explore could wait.

Harry turned to Malfoy. “Want to play a Seeker’s game?”

“At night?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

Harry grinned. “Hold on.” He popped into the shed to grab a practice Snitch. When he returned outside, Malfoy had cast his own _Lumos_ and was waiting for him under its glow. His gaze went to Harry’s hand. Harry tossed the Snitch, caught it again. Then he lobbed it at Malfoy. 

Malfoy caught the Snitch with his off-hand. “You never did grow up, did you.”

“And you haven’t lost your reflexes.”

Malfoy tossed it into the air a couple of times and then threw it back to Harry. His eyes tracked the movement as Harry caught it. “And neither have you.”

“Equal match.”

Malfoy had begun to lower his lit wand, so Harry couldn’t see his expression.

They walked to the middle of the Quidditch practice field. A wind swept over them, carrying dampness from the forest beyond. Harry thought he heard the soft hoots of the Erumpent. He looked around. Perhaps if it were a full moon night, this plan would have worked better. 

As if hearing his thoughts, Malfoy whispered an incantation, and a ball of gentle rose gold light floated from his wand like a bubble. It briefly illuminated his face, then drifted lazily into the air. He turned to find Harry watching him, and his face creased. “What? We aren’t going to fly in the dark.”

Harry didn’t tell Malfoy that, whatever expression was on his face, it had nothing to do with criticizing Malfoy’s idea to cast the lights. He shook his head to clear it. “No. That’s a brilliant idea,” he said, and cast his own ball of light. It was pale golden in color and rose to circle around Malfoy’s before drifting in another direction.

He and Malfoy walked around the field, casting more lights until they hung around the space at different heights, rotating like the globes of Malfoy’s planet lamp.

“Ready?” Harry said, holding up the Snitch.

Malfoy was just visible in the dim light, holding his broom. A thrill sizzled over Harry.

“Potter. I was born ready.”

Harry murmured the incantation Ginny had taught him to wake the practice Snitch and then released it. It glinted once in the glow of a floating orb before blinking out of sight.

Malfoy was in the air just an instant before Harry.

Harry kicked off after him. He took one glance around for the Snitch and then abandoned the search to climb, drawn toward the sky. The wind roared in his ears. The lights bobbed out of his way.

He leveled off sharply when he’d reached the middle of the lit space. He scanned the air, but he wasn’t looking for the Snitch.

At first, he couldn’t find Malfoy. Then Malfoy moved back into the circle of lights. They illuminated him softly as he passed in and out of them. He looked ethereal—like something that couldn’t be real.

The night felt alive around Harry. Vast. Cold and warm currents of air streamed past him. A bat darted in and out of view above. Harry darted, too, feeling fleet and free.

Malfoy was beautiful, expression exhilarated and determined. The Snitch itself flitted into view and out of it again. They dipped and dived after it. Veered off. Pursued each other, sometimes passing close enough that Harry could see the gleam of Malfoy’s smile. At some point, Harry completely lost track of the Snitch. Forgot that it was supposed to be what he was chasing.

It had been forever since he’d felt so exhilarated—but even when he’d played Quidditch, he hadn’t felt quite like _this_. Like pure laughter. 

A bolt of inspiration struck him, and he broke away to spiral high, high up—far above the balls of light, high enough that he was out of their light. From there, he could see the stars clearly. They surrounded him all the way down to the horizon in every direction he looked—as if he were in space.

Malfoy streaked up to join him. He made a darker shadow against the backdrop of the night sky, a patch of void.

 _Beautiful_ , Harry almost said.

Below, the Snitch glinted.

Harry dived. So did Malfoy.

They dropped through the night sky, toward the floating lights and the winking Snitch.

Harry watched Malfoy as they passed back into the lights. The half-wild look on his face. His body, pressed close to the broom.

Malfoy laughed. His hand shot out, caught a gleam of gold. He pulled up sharply, and Harry realized he was hurtling toward the ground.

Harry veered just in time not to crash. He tumbled to the grass. It crackled beneath him, and smelled sweet and like baked earth. The ground was still warm from the day, and Harry might have lain there for a minute, except the broom handle pressed hard into his side.

He rolled over and stood. He felt strangely heavy, strangely light—as if he were half made of wind. He didn’t care that he hadn’t won the game. He _felt_ as if he had, especially when Malfoy came to a graceful landing and held up the Snitch. He looked smug and beautiful, illuminated from above by the glowing spheres—as if he really were some mysterious creature, not quite human.

Harry couldn’t help himself. He stepped forward and cupped Malfoy’s jaw and kissed him. The kiss felt like a natural extension of the moment, both of them windblown and ecstatic. Malfoy’s breath was warm against Harry’s mouth, panting and just as full of the night as Harry.

Then Harry stepped back, a touch sheepish. Malfoy only blinked at him, didn’t say anything.

Harry smiled and took the broom from him. He accepted back the Snitch, too. It was cold from its flight but warm in the places Malfoy had held it.

They returned to the broom shed in silence, and Harry put the equipment away. Though the night was still young, one flight seemed like enough—but Harry wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

“Would you like to stay for a beer?” he asked Malfoy, the first thing that came to mind. Then, belatedly, he remembered that Malfoy had to wake for work early in the morning. Back at the house, Malfoy had said he’d been getting ready for bed, hadn’t he? At the time, Harry thought Malfoy was using an excuse to avoid him. Now, Harry remembered how exhausted Malfoy had looked yesterday. Shit. He opened his mouth to say never mind.

“Yes,” Malfoy said.

Harry hesitated, but Malfoy sounded very sure, and Harry couldn’t help but be a little selfish, so he sneaked into the kitchen for a couple of the ales Ginny kept in the fridge.

They sat at the bottom of the garden and drank straight from the bottles, even Malfoy, though Harry had remembered to bring a glass for him.

“They use some kind of special hops variety for this one,” Harry said. “Less bitter. Kind of piney.”

Malfoy snorted. “Did you get that off the description on the label?”

Harry took another sip and gazed out at the bulky silhouette of the forest, trying not to smile. “Might have.”

Malfoy shook his head. He was leaning back against one hand as he looked up at the sky. Some kind of bird croaked loudly as it flew by overhead, punctuating the high drone of crickets. “I’m surprised you didn’t go into Quidditch,” he said in an offhand way, after it had passed.

“Hm? Why?”

A pause. “You always were a good flier.”

Malfoy’s tone was mild enough, but it still caught Harry a bit off guard. He’d been replaying the image of Malfoy diving and laughing. His slight smile fell into a frown. He glanced at Malfoy. “You weren’t half-bad yourself.”

Malfoy sniffed.

“What? You weren’t. Still aren’t. You won just now, didn’t you?”

Another sniff.

“Anyway. I never really considered it.” At Malfoy’s sharp glance, he said, “What?”

“You like flying. You’re good at it.”

“Well, yeah, I like flying. It’s the attention I don’t much like.”

Malfoy was staring. Harry couldn’t quite make out his expression in the darkness, but his voice sounded surprised. “You love attention.”

Harry had a flashback to Hogwarts, and the reality hit him: this was _Draco Malfoy_. Draco Malfoy, who had resented him and hated him, had bullied him and his friends—

—and safeguarded Luna’s feelings and ran a Muggle coffee shop. No, Harry wasn’t innocent of having his own preconceived notions about Malfoy. They had a lot of history. And for someone who apparently still believed Harry was an arrogant attention-seeker, Malfoy was exhibiting remarkable civility.

“Berk. I hate attention. Right up there with Binns’s lectures.”

“Binns! I didn’t realize you had a thing for history.”

“I don’t.” Harry couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice. He threw a small rock at Malfoy. “But I’d rather sit through a day of his lectures than deal with…any of that. The newspapers. Signatures.”

A long, drawn-out silence. Then: “You seemed to like the cheering well enough when you won a game.” 

Harry ripped at the corner of the beer bottle label. “Well, yeah. Nice to feel good at something for once.”

Malfoy was looking at him again. “What do you mean?”

He peeled the label away. “I mean, I wasn’t almost top of the class with my marks, was I? Didn’t have parents who loved me enough to— I didn’t have parents. So yeah, it was nice when someone told me I wasn’t a waste of space.”

“Who ever told you you were a waste of space?” There was a frown in Malfoy’s voice.

Harry scoffed. “Everyone. Before I got to Hogwarts, it’s the only thing anyone ever said about me.” Into the long silence that followed, Harry said, with bitterness he couldn’t help, “If you want to verify that, you can check it against my unofficial biography. Tells all about it.”

“You really mean it,” Malfoy said, in wonder.

“What?”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything at all. Flying was nice. I’m sorry I brought that up.” Then: “Are you going to finish that, or just mangle it?”

“What? Oh.” Harry took a drink of his beer. “I do like this one.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Malfoy went back to looking at the sky. Then, a few beats later, he said, “Binns.”

“Binns.”

Harry relaxed once more. He placed one of his hands on the ground next to Malfoy’s, and was pleased when Malfoy didn’t move away.

They finished their beers, and Harry stole two more. He was halfway through the second, watching a bright point move slowly across the sky—and wondering if he should ask Malfoy up to his room—when Malfoy said, “Would you like to see the coast?”

Harry blinked. He turned to look at Malfoy.

“You seemed interested in the pictures of Thor’s Well and Haystack Rock.”

Harry’s heart sped up. He was a little warm and loose from the beer, so had to pause a moment, holding his breath, before he said, “I’d love it, but I’m leaving back to England in a few days.”

“I know. It’s not that far. We have time.”

“But you work tomorrow,” Harry said, slowly.

“I have a few days off.” Malfoy said it while looking up at the sky, and his voice was neutral, casual.

Harry was fairly certain Malfoy had originally planned to work the rest of the week; he’d mentioned it previously. Harry felt as if there was something else going on here, some deeper current.

“When do you want to leave?”

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

“I am now.”


	23. Chapter 23

By the light of morning, Harry wondered if it had all been a dream. The image of Malfoy diving through the night sky, his expression and the lines of his body so hard—but so soft in the rosy golden light—was vivid in his mind but unreal. Then: sitting and drinking beer and watching the stars. Malfoy’s invitation to visit the coast. _We can leave in the morning_.

_But a normal person’s “morning,” right?_

_What, does four o’clock inconvenience you? Can’t be bothered to wake when working people do?_

Malfoy’s voice was mocking, but there was something else in it, something playful and warm. The side of his hand gently pressed against the side of Harry’s on the ground.

It couldn’t be real. But Harry rolled out of bed, anyway.

Maybe because he wanted to maintain the dream, he packed his bag with clothes and toiletries for a few days. Then—because of course it was a dream, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself—he left it on the bed when he went downstairs for breakfast.

Ginny came in as he was eating, red-faced and hair wild from a flight. “Malfoy’s here.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“Malfoy. He says you two are going to the coast?”

Harry dropped his avocado toast, then fumbled a catch before it hit the ground.

Ginny laughed.

Malfoy was indeed waiting for Harry in the front. It was strange to see this side of the house; Harry hadn’t really been up here since he first arrived because he’d Apparated everywhere he’d gone. With his bag on his shoulder, he had a flashback to arriving. That brought an odd pang of emotion, and it mixed with the pang of seeing Malfoy leaning against the front of a silver car with his baseball cap on. His gaze caught Harry’s and held.

“Stopped to take in the sights?” Malfoy drawled.

Harry realized he’d paused halfway down the driveway and was staring.

“Sure,” he said, resuming his walk. “I see the strangest things here.”

Malfoy huffed.

Harry slung his bag into the back seat and got into the passenger side. He was still vaguely nervous about being in a vehicle, but mostly, he was excited.

Malfoy got in beside him, and they made their way up the bumpy drive to the little road that led to the motorway. Harry couldn’t look away from Malfoy’s hands on the wheel, where they rested so casually, with their tendons and knuckles, thumbs hooked around the wheel.

Malfoy didn’t say anything as they made their way to the end of the drive and he turned the indicator on. The silence held a different quality than the silence between Harry and Ginny when they’d been in the car together. This silence felt big, like its own presence, like it needed to be broken, but Harry didn’t know how, and he was afraid of fracturing it.

While they were still stopped, Malfoy glanced at him. “Seatbelt? Good. You did pack more than one pair of underwear, correct?”

“What?” Harry laughed.

“I take nothing for granted,” Malfoy said primly, and it was so ridiculous, Harry couldn’t be offended. Malfoy had already looked away from Harry and was playing with the car radio. Music came on. Classical. Of course.

They turned onto the street. Houses and trees and countryside slid by. Harry was aware of it in a different way than when he’d first arrived. It felt more familiar now; he had lost the sense of being displaced.

“How long have you been driving?” he asked.

Malfoy glanced at the digital clock. “An hour, plus the half hour I waited for you.”

“You were not waiting half an hour. And I meant, how long have you had your license? And a car?”

“Almost as soon as I moved to Oregon. In the US, especially in this part of the country, it’s practically impossible to get around without driving. Easier for magical folks, but ultimately more convenient all around to have a car. Difficult to Apparate if you haven’t been to a location before. And you miss the countryside.”

Harry liked watching it pass, so he couldn’t disagree.

“Ginny and Luna and Pansy took me to the coast shortly after I arrived. I wanted to be able to return on my own,” Malfoy added almost too casually.

They turned onto a wider road and picked up speed. Golden fields and sprays of white flowers flew by. Almost like flying with Malfoy again, except they moved the same speed, and it was bright out, and Malfoy was the one steering, and Harry was okay with that.

“It’s nice,” Harry said, softly.

“It is.”

They didn’t say anything else for a while.

The motorway unrolled before them. Harry felt the same feeling he got when he was on the farm, holding a broom and hearing the countryside whisper its invitation to keep going and going.

The fields gave way to buildings, and they entered a more densely populated area. They passed shopping plazas and office buildings and signs for petrol stations and restaurants.

“Oh!” Harry sat straight up. “There!”

Malfoy’s hand slipped on the wheel. The car swerved. “What?!”

“An IHOP!”

“ _What?_ ” Malfoy straightened the car out and threw an irate look at Harry.

“I’ve been wanting to try eating at one. Ron mentioned it.”

“Are you— First of all, never do that again. You’re going to get us into an accident! Second: didn’t you _just_ eat?”

“Half a piece of toast, considering you showed up in the middle of my breakfast.”

Malfoy muttered something under his breath—a long string of somethings—but flipped on his indicator and glanced into the rearview mirror before beginning to cross into the rightmost lane.

He took the next exit, which wasn’t the correct one, as they’d already passed it, (“We wouldn’t have missed it if you hadn’t wasted time complaining,” Harry pointed out) and spent the next forty minutes navigating the dense urban maze. Malfoy treated Harry to an ongoing rant about construction, street closures, and detours.

“It’s all right, just get back onto the motorway,” Harry said, after they were redirected for the third time.

“We’ve come this far,” Malfoy said, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“Really, it’s fine, Malfoy,” Harry said, some minutes later.

Malfoy ignored him.

Harry watched the buildings and cars and people slide by, and he was again struck by how much bigger and newer everything was here. It was no wonder they needed so much coffee: to fuel all of this activity. He kind of liked it though. It was...energetic.

After a time, they turned onto a tree-lined street and then pulled into a car park next to a long building with many windows.

“Behold,” Malfoy said, as he slid the car into a parking spot.

Harry looked at the big blue IHOP sign above the building. “Would you be very upset if I said I’m no longer in the mood?”

“Out! Out of my car. You can Apparate home.”

As they walked to the door, Harry drifted close to Malfoy and brushed hands with him. “Thanks,” he said.

Malfoy sniffed, but seemed to relax a fraction. He held the door open for Harry. 

The hostess led them to a booth. Harry didn’t want to admit that it was…well, a restaurant, and maybe not worth the hassle. Although he _was_ fascinated by the open kitchen and the cooks he could see inside it—flipping things on the grills, tossing food onto plates, sliding orders onto the steel counter for the waitstaff.

Malfoy was unfailingly polite to the waiter who arrived, and seemed well familiar with the ritual of ordering drinks and asking about the daily specials.

“You’ve eaten here before,” Harry said, with a grin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malfoy said, flipping the page of the menu.

Harry smiled. He kept half an eye on the menu and half on Malfoy and the way he occasionally reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes or fidget with his water glass. The fact of the matter was, he’d found Malfoy’s ranting in the car incredibly amusing, and a little bit of a turn on. Harry had wanted to lean over and kiss Malfoy’s frowning mouth more than once, which very well _might_ have got them into an accident.

“What do you suggest?” Harry asked now.

Malfoy launched into a knowledgeable discourse about the menu items, which Harry didn’t pay complete attention to. Really, he’d just wanted to get Malfoy talking again. Malfoy had opinions about everything, and he shared them in such a snide way. Even better, Malfoy appeared to have little clue how funny he was at times, and fixed Harry with a glare every time Harry chuckled at something he said.

“What _is_ it with you, Potter?”

“Something in the tea.”

“You’re drinking water.”

Harry gave a jaunty shrug.

Their orders arrived in a billow of salty steam and clinking porcelain. Harry didn’t like his very much. He pushed the overdone steak around the eggs on his plate while Malfoy told him about the first time he’d ordered from a non-magical restaurant; to begin with, neither Ginny nor Pansy told him that you couldn’t order by tapping on the menu, “So naturally, when the waitress arrived and I told her I’d already ordered, she was confused. You’d think Ginny or Pansy would have said something _then_.” 

Halfway through the anecdote, Malfoy reached across the table to swap his and Harry’s plate. He cut a piece of the steak without breaking the thread of his story. Harry scooped up a bite of the ham omelet Malfoy had ordered. It was good.

Eventually, they made their way back onto the motorway. 

Malfoy told Harry more stories about his first experiences in non-magical America, and on the farm, and navigating the magical culture in Portland. In a way, it had been easier than continuing on in England—starting fresh where no one knew him. Luna had been an incredibly sweet tour guide, though her notions of how non-magical culture worked hadn’t been much better than his at the time. Neither had Pansy’s, though she’d had a way of bluffing her way through almost any situation. Ginny had picked things up the easiest and had been his best teacher, when she wasn’t laughing at him.

Malfoy talked, and they passed out of the city and into the countryside again, and then into the mountains. The transition sneaked up: first the mountains loomed ahead, and then they were no longer visible, and the car was straining up twisty roads, and by the time Harry realized they were in the mountains, they were already heading down again, and they’d arrived on the other side.

Malfoy wanted to show Harry a museum, but it was closed when they arrived, which plunged Malfoy into a glowering mood. Harry demanded they get ice cream instead, then sidetracked them on a tour of the creamery, at which point Malfoy stopped glowering because he was sucked in by the sight of the machinery producing perfect blocks of cheese. He stared, and licked trails of melting ice cream from his cone, and Harry smirked and cast a little underhanded Stasis Charm on the ice cream.

The sky appeared vaster, somehow, as they made their way up the coast road, past soggy wetlands and glimpses of the ocean and towns mostly consisting of tourist shops. They stopped for a late lunch. This time, Malfoy picked the restaurant—a small place that served chowder and salads—and placed orders for both of them before Harry could get a word in. That annoyed Harry, but he couldn’t complain about the Dungeness crab melt that arrived, really. It was delicious.

Then Harry wanted to stop at a shop that made fudge, and at the tourist gift shop next to it, which Malfoy bore with dignity.

So it was evening when at last they parked and Malfoy announced that they’d arrived in Cannon Beach.

“For Haystack Rock,” Malfoy said, at Harry’s confused frown.

The sun was low on the horizon, dipping toward the water, as they made their way down to the beach. They walked past cliffs topped with hotels, and long driftwood logs, and people sitting around bonfires, and the reflection of the sun on the shining expanse of shore that went on and on.

They walked for a long time. The bonfires became brighter as the sky grew darker, until they were walking through dusk, and the wet shore gleamed with deep pinks and blues. Walking endlessly, a bit like their endless drive that day. The shore and sky stretched before them, tugged them on.

And at last: the silhouette of a familiar form against the dying light.

“There it is,” Harry said.

“There it is.”

Really, Haystack Rock was barely visible in the gloom, but Harry liked it that way. He liked the stars above and the sounds of the surf, and Malfoy—barely visible—standing next to him.


	24. Chapter 24

The hotel clerk didn’t blink at two men asking for one room, although Harry felt conspicuous. When they got to the room, some of the lack of suspicion was self-explanatory: there were two beds, each too small to fit more than one adult man comfortably.

Malfoy claimed the bed near the window without a word and set his bag down on it. Harry set his own down on the other. He didn’t know why he should feel so uncomfortable and self-conscious. He and Malfoy had clicked so well up till then, so he didn’t know… Were they just going to sleep? Separately? Not that sleep was a bad idea. Just. A _little_ disappointing.

There was also the fact that he was sober. They’d had dinner at a fancy little seafood place, and they’d each had a glass of wine, but only one. Enough to feel comfortably warm on the way to the hotel, but now he was distressingly sober.

He scratched the back of his head. “Well, I guess I’ll use the bathroom, unless you need to use it first?”

Malfoy shrugged. He didn’t seem too concerned. So Harry used it, and came out in the t-shirt and boxers he slept in.

Malfoy was propped up in his bed, reading a magazine. He’d removed his shoes and socks, but those were the only things. Something about seeing his pale, knobby feet while the rest of him was clothed made Harry’s mouth go dry.

Malfoy glanced up and raised an eyebrow. “Turning in early, are you?”

Harry looked down at himself. “Uh, yeah. I guess. What time did you want to get going in the morning?”

Malfoy tilted his head in the equivalent of a shrug. He was looking at Harry in an odd way that made Harry squirmy. He set down the magazine. “I was thinking. Since you’ll be returning to England soon, you might want to try a few more things before heading back? What happens in the States stays in the States.”

Harry was pretty sure the saying didn’t go that way, but. “Oh. That. Sounds good. What…did you have in mind?”

The corners of Malfoy’s lips turned up. “Well. I was thinking of starting by sucking you off. As long as you’re not opposed?”

“Uh. No.”

“Good.” He sat up at the side of the bed. “Do you want to lie down? But for god’s sake, pull down the duvet because they never clean those things.”

Harry huffed a nervous laugh. “I’m surprised you didn’t _Scourgify_ it.”

“I did. But even so.”

Harry assumed undressing was in order, though Malfoy was still clothed (except, of course, for his narrow feet, which now rested on the floor). For a brief instant, he considered whether he wanted Malfoy to spell his clothes off again; the sudden crackle of Malfoy’s magic had been _nice_. Then he pulled down his boxers. His dick stood straight up, and he was self-conscious about that, but Malfoy stared at it with open hunger.

Next, Harry shucked his shirt.

“Mm,” Malfoy hummed, and the sound was so sensual, Harry almost made a noise in response.

He lay down on the bed. It felt a bit like the last time—the first time—in Malfoy’s bed, except everything happened slower now, and clearer. The mattress springs creaked underneath him; he could feel them against his back. Malfoy was looking at him with something beyond appreciation, and that made Harry even more excited.

Along with the excitement, he felt exposed and strange. And it hit him especially hard now that he was sober: this was Malfoy. Malfoy, who had let Death Eaters into the school. Who had pointed a wand at Dumbledore. Who had broken Harry’s nose, but who also hadn’t identified him to Voldemort. Who had moved to Oregon to open a coffeehouse and bakery that served non-magicals.

Malfoy. Who prowled towards him now and put a knee on the bed. The mattress dipped. Malfoy stretched out over him, and Harry’s heart thundered. He wasn’t sure how he should feel about Malfoy acting the predator and him lying passively in wait, but it wasn’t fear or anger making his heart race.

Malfoy’s fringe fell softly over his keen grey eyes. Harry wanted to comb his fingers through it, cup the angular jaw—but he couldn’t move. He was transfixed.

“Look at you,” Malfoy whispered, and claimed Harry’s mouth.

The first brush of Malfoy’s tongue was long and slow, and Harry opened his mouth to him. Malfoy slipped in, hot and tasting a little of the chocolate cake they’d shared for dessert. He gave one more long, slow stroke—inside Harry’s mouth—and then thrust once, twice, in echo of what he’d done to Harry the last time. The sensation went straight to Harry’s arsehole.

Then Malfoy pulled away, one hand pinning Harry’s shoulder to the bed. He chuckled as Harry strained to follow. Pressed a kiss to Harry’s chin, his neck, his collarbone.

He was infuriatingly slow as he worked his way down Harry’s body—chest, barely skirting the nipple, belly—to lick the crease of Harry’s thigh. In response, Harry’s legs fell open on their own accord. Malfoy chuckled, and his tongue traveled down. Harry hissed. Was Malfoy—? Again—? But Malfoy reversed directions just shy of Harry’s hole and he trailed his tongue up. Harry shut his eyes as Malfoy’s lips brushed the side of his balls and up Harry’s cock, and then he took Harry down in one smooth movement. Harry gasped, shocked at the sudden sensation of slick heat.

Malfoy sucked him in and out, his head bobbing, cheeks hollowing with each drag of his mouth. Harry let out an incoherent noise and clutched the sheets, panting.

This time, Malfoy grasped Harry’s hands and placed them on his own head. Reeling, shivering with pleasure, Harry didn’t understand at first—then Harry gripped the fine white-blond hair. Gently. Then Malfoy’s teeth grazed his shaft, and his fists tightened automatically. Malfoy moaned. The sound traveled through Harry, and he gripped tighter, and Malfoy gave a guttural groan and deepened his movements.

Then he pulled back.

Dazed, Harry blinked up at Malfoy, who had done this last time, too. He expected long fingers to dip down and tease him, tracing circles over his sensitive skin, and his body tensed with anticipation. But Malfoy stretched across Harry and brushed his mouth over Harry’s neck and jaw and said, voice low, “Fuck me.”

Harry wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, even as Malfoy drew up onto his knees, unbuttoning his shirt and Summoning lube.

“You have fucked someone before, right, Potter? Don’t tell me your previous partners did _all_ the pegging.”

Harry was too breathless to protest, too busy feeling a thrill at the word _pegging_ and the image that flashed into his mind. They had never— _Why_ had they never—?

“God, you’re a wanker,” Harry gasped.

“So I’ve been told.” Malfoy smirked, but the expression flickered when his fingers reached the cuff of his sleeve. He unbuttoned one, then the other. Hesitated for a breath. Pulled the shirt off.

Harry noticed the flash of black ink at Malfoy’s wrist as Malfoy tossed the shirt to the other bed. Lifted his gaze to Malfoy’s face. Kept it there, even as Malfoy unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down. The fabric brushed over Harry’s bare skin. Then those hit the other bed, too.

“Well?” Malfoy said.

He was so beautiful on his knees, in only his vest and briefs. Harry licked his lips, said, “Not going to take off the rest?”

“I thought I’d leave something for you,” Malfoy said archly, but his smile flickered again—just enough that Harry noticed.

Something about that vulnerability had Harry sitting up, and he kissed Malfoy. Malfoy seemed like he expected to either plunder Harry’s mouth again or be plundered, but Harry deflected his tongue and took control of the kiss sweetly, grazing his teeth over Malfoy’s lips, sucking, caressing.

Malfoy let out a little helpless noise. Harry smiled into his mouth and cupped his face, stroked Malfoy’s mouth with his tongue. Malfoy relaxed his jaw, drew Harry closer—which was the moment Harry straightened his tongue and began to thrust as Malfoy had done to him.

Malfoy squeaked and melted into Harry, and Harry chuckled. He reached down, skimming a hand over Malfoy’s chest. He brushed his fingers over Malfoy’s nipple through the vest, enjoying the pleased whimper, the noise of protest as Harry’s hand left it to continue down, the mewl as Harry palmed the bulge of Malfoy’s cock through the fabric of his briefs. 

A thrill went through Harry, and he had to pause a moment as he tried to keep himself together. Another man’s cock. _Malfoy’s_ cock. Harry pressed his hand against the damp patch on the fabric and groaned.

Harry dragged Malfoy’s bottom lip through his teeth and pulled back from the kiss.

“Fuck. Malfoy.”

He used both hands to push down Malfoy’s underwear. He had no finesse—he knew, but didn’t care. Freed, Malfoy’s cock jutted out, pink and leaking. Harry pressed the top of his head against Malfoy’s collarbone as he stared down at it, panting for breath.

Malfoy gripped Harry’s shoulders. “Oh, my god. Touch it. Please.” His tone was raw. Malfoy—nearly incoherent.

Harry liked that.

He closed his hand around Malfoy’s cock. “Is this what you want?” Harry whispered.

Malfoy gasped, and his hands tightened.

Harry worked his fist over Malfoy’s cock, entranced. Malfoy was so hard, his skin so soft and so slick with precome. He noted every squeeze and twist that drew a reaction from Malfoy and repeated each until Malfoy was mewling desperately and digging his nails into Harry’s back.

Then he was pushing Harry away. Harry looked up at Malfoy’s wild expression.

“Is that not okay?”

Malfoy’s mouth opened and closed for a moment without sound before he gasped, “Harry Potter, you can’t be _real._ If you don’t stop, I’m going to come.”

“Oh. That’s a problem?”

Harry couldn’t tell if the expression on Malfoy’s face was enraged or disbelieving or— Malfoy dipped down for a quick, bruising kiss. “Fuck me. I want you to be inside me when I come.”

_Oh._

“What do I need to do?”

Malfoy huffed a laugh.

Harry squeezed the base of Malfoy’s cock. “Arsehole. I mean. I’ve never fucked a man before.”

He’d never fucked a man before, and while Harry reckoned the mechanics of it were similar enough, he felt a great urge not to hurt Malfoy, to do it right—to make him feel good.

Malfoy’s breath hitched. “Well. Insert tab A into—”

Harry bit Malfoy’s neck. He maneuvered him around on the narrow bed and pushed him onto his back. His heart pounded as he stared down at Malfoy, who was looking up at him with his mouth slightly parted and his eyes glazed.

It occurred to Harry that he’d placed Malfoy into the position he was most used to having sex with women in. Not that he hadn’t had sex in other positions. He just defaulted to this one. He felt a small moment of uncertainty at this, but then, Malfoy hadn’t resisted, was staring at him with pupils blown wide.

“You’re still in this,” Harry said, fingering the hem of the vest. 

Malfoy licked his lips, didn’t say anything. Harry gathered the fabric and slid it up, over his abdomen, his chest, guiding it over his head and off his arms. It felt significant, somehow, this last barrier before Malfoy was there, lying completely naked beneath him.

Harry’s gaze traveled down. He noticed the silvery marks criss-crossing Malfoy’s chest. The sight sent a stab of alarm through him, then another when he realized they were scars—and a wash of cold when he realized what had caused them. Who.

For an instant, he couldn’t breathe. Then he dragged his gaze back to Malfoy’s eyes. The desire hadn’t left Malfoy’s expression, but a little uncertainty had come into it.

Harry could feel an apology lodged deep inside of him, but the words wouldn’t come out. It wasn’t the right time. It wasn’t what Malfoy needed right now.

“Fingers first,” Malfoy whispered. “Fuck me with your fingers.”

Merlin. Harry remembered the lube. He squeezed some onto his hands, which were surprisingly steady. Harry did not feel steady.

Malfoy bit his lip. Suddenly, he seemed so fragile there beneath Harry. Harry leaned down on one arm, pressed a kiss to Malfoy’s mouth, and slid his other hand down to tease around Malfoy’s hole the way Malfoy had done to him—circling, circling, brushing over his entrance. He had the urge to taste Malfoy down there, but it wasn’t what Malfoy had asked for, so he traced his finger around and watched Malfoy’s eyes flutter closed. 

Malfoy opened his mouth as if about to give Harry directions, so Harry preempted him by pushing a finger in. 

Malfoy gasped. Harry felt a jolt of sensation down to his own cock at the warm squeeze around his finger. He pushed in a little and dragged back out, watching Malfoy’s face as he did so.

“More,” Malfoy whispered.

Harry pushed deeper and faster, till he had a rhythm going and Malfoy was whimpering and moving his hips to meet Harry’s hand, taking the finger up to the knuckle. Harry introduced a little twist to his movement, and Malfoy responded by canting his hips.

“Two,” he panted.

Harry pulled his hand away, and Malfoy made a small sound of loss. 

“Shh,” Harry said. With one hand, he guided Malfoy to open his legs wider, and he gave Malfoy’s cock a squeeze with the other. Merlin, he really wanted to swallow him down—but he could do that later.

Slowly, he pushed two fingers in. Malfoy tensed for a moment and then relaxed as Harry finger-fucked him carefully. 

“How does it feel?” he murmured.

Malfoy gasped, closed his eyes, whispered, “Wonderful.”

The feel of Malfoy’s body untensing around Harry’s fingers was so sweet. He wanted to do this all night, wanted to take Malfoy apart with nothing more than this. 

Malfoy said, “Fuck me, Harry.”

Harry shuddered. He was so close to the brink from excitement that he had to take a moment, and reached a hand down to squeeze the base of his own cock. His other hand was braced against Malfoy’s leg. He realized he was leaning too hard against it, and though Malfoy didn’t say anything—didn’t even seem to notice—Harry eased off.

This time, when Harry squeezed out more lube, his hands were shaking. He slicked his cock and lifted Malfoy’s legs to set them over his shoulders. Malfoy watched him, eyes hooded. The look on Malfoy’s face made him want to kiss Malfoy again, but he didn’t. 

“Going to fuck you now,” Harry said as he lined up, and then pushed inside.

Malfoy’s breath hitched. Harry entered him slowly. Malfoy tensed, and he paused until he felt Malfoy slowly relax around him, waited for his whispered, “Go on,” and pushed in more, inch by inch, until he was fully seated. They both groaned, Harry panting at how warm and tight Malfoy felt around him. “Fuck.” It took all of his control to pause there and not rut senselessly into him.

Malfoy peeled his eyes open. They were clear and sharp. “Tell me this is not how you fucked women. You realize you have to move.”

Harry huffed a laugh. He rolled his hips experimentally, and Malfoy’s mouth fell open, eyes fluttering shut again. Harry pumped his hips—this time a little sharper, a little deeper. Malfoy hissed, a high sound of pleasure. On the third go, he was rising to meet Harry’s movements.

Malfoy opened his eyes. His pupils were blown. He reached up and drew Harry into a kiss. It was a sloppy kiss, this time—teeth clashing, nipping at each other’s lips.

Malfoy set his nails into Harry’s shoulders, and the pleasure-pain of it trembled through him. Harry’s hips snapped forward, hard, and the bed creaked, the headboard rattled. A smile cracked Malfoy’s face—bright and unguarded. Harry panted a laugh and fumbled for his wand to cast a Silencing Charm, but Malfoy gripped his wrist. Eyes gleaming, he growled, “Let them hear us. I want them to hear what you’re doing to me.”

“Merlin. Draco.”

He was fucking Malfoy harder now. He was inside him, and Malfoy was opening so sweetly to him. At that thought, Harry pushed deeper. They both gasped. Harry pressed his face against Malfoy’s jaw, his neck. Growled as Malfoy raked his nails over his shoulders.

Harry felt the urgency of an impending orgasm. In an attempt to hold it off, he pulled out almost all the way before pushing back in again, slowing his rhythm. He grasped Malfoy’s cock, squeezed and twisted in the ways that had made Malfoy wild earlier.

“I won’t come until you do first,” Harry said, hoarsely. “I want to see the look on your face.”

Malfoy let out a helpless sound, and at that, something clicked for Harry. Malfoy _liked_ talk during sex. 

“You’re beautiful like this,” he growled. “Look at you, taking my cock like you were made for it. Do you fuck yourself on your fingers and dream of me, Malfoy? Have you been saving it for me?”

Malfoy made a noise that could have been a laugh but mostly sounded like a gasp.

“How long have you fantasized about taking my cock up your arse? Did you dream of me holding you down and fucking you fast? Or slow?” Here, Harry sped up briefly and then slowed nearly to a stop, and Malfoy groaned.

“What do you want, Malfoy? How do you want it?”

“Slow,” Malfoy whispered. “Then fast.”

“You like to be teased. You slut.”

“ _Yes_.”

Fuck, Harry was not going to hold on much longer. He bit his own lip, clutched hard at the base of his cock. Only the tip was pressed against Malfoy’s hole. He rubbed the head against slick skin, then pushed back in, slowly and exquisitely. Malfoy made a little high noise in the back of his throat as he slid all the way in.

Harry did it again. Then a third time. The only thing holding him back from coming, himself, was his singular focus on Draco’s face. Draco looked sweetly tortured, completely abandoned.

The fourth time Harry pulled all the way out again to rest the head of his cock against Draco’s entrance, Draco growled his protest. So Harry pushed in—fast.

“Is this what you want? For me to fuck your tight hole like this?” he whispered roughly at Draco’s ear. He was driving into Draco, his hips slapping against Draco’s arse with every thrust. The headboard knocked against the wall, and Harry spared a brief thought for their neighbors, if they had any. _Very_ brief, gone the moment Draco snarled.

Harry set a brutal rhythm with both his hips and his hand, pulling Draco off. A frisson of alarm went up his spine as he realized he was on the brink, and this time he wouldn’t be able to hold it off. But then Draco was keening, his body tightening around Harry’s—and for a moment, Harry thought he himself had come because his hand was covered with wet warmth, but no, it wasn’t his own, it was Draco’s, and that realization undid him and then _he_ was coming. Waves of pleasure rippled through him.

He milked Draco until Draco hissed, and then dropped to his elbow, gasping. His ears roared and he smelled sex and sweat and Draco’s citrusy skin with each panting breath. Below him, the pulse at Draco’s pale throat bounded. Harry wanted to kiss it. He gathered himself for a wandless Cleaning Charm and cast it.

Draco, who had been watching, dropped his head back against the pillow. “We’re going to talk about that later.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure what Draco had been referring to, so he didn’t say anything, only settled next to him. The bed _was_ narrow, he remembered as his backside hung over the edge by a couple of inches. This time, he Summoned his wand before casting; the bed widened.

“Show off,” Draco said.

“You love it.”

“Mmm.”

That sounded suspiciously like an agreement, which had not been what Harry was expecting. He couldn’t help but smile.

Draco didn’t complain as Harry drew him close and pulled the covers up over them, so Harry smiled again and turned off the light. He pressed a kiss to the back of Draco’s neck. Distantly, he realized it was a thing he used to do with Ginny. But he didn’t have time to really consider what that meant because it was the last thought he had.

***

Harry woke to morning light coming through the gap in the curtains. Unfamiliar curtains, unfamiliar bed. 

Very familiar face next to his on the pillow.

 _Malfoy_.

He looked soft and sleep-tousled in the morning light. He and Harry had moved around in the night so that he was on his back and Harry was sort of curled around him, one arm across his chest. His very bare, very warm and gently moving chest.

A thin band of sunlight cut across his skin, highlighting the silver Sectumsempra scars in its path. Harry was tempted to brush his thumb over them and feel if they were as raised as they looked, but he didn’t want to wake Malfoy. He swallowed tightly, remembering blood and thinking of how bad the wounds must have been, that they had scarred. He _didn’t_ stop himself from pressing a soft kiss to Malfoy’s shoulder.

Harry’s gaze traveled down Malfoy’s body—and his heart stopped. Malfoy’s arm had settled with the forearm faced upwards. Harry stared at the Mark, at the ugly leering skull and the open mouth of the snake. He remembered noting, back in the coffee shop, that the details were blurred. From a foot away, the indistinctness of it was even more apparent.

Slowly, Harry lifted his head. He felt bad about looking closer, but he couldn’t not.

“Oh,” he breathed.

The Mark was a non-magical tattoo. Harry could make out the faded pink scar of the original Mark beneath the tattoo, which was made up of dozens and dozens of words in a fine black script. Names.

He looked up. Malfoy watched him with a carefully blank, guarded expression. His lips were puffy from sleep. At a slight movement against his abdomen, he glanced down again. Malfoy had clenched his fist, causing the tendons to stand out against his creamy skin, as if maybe he would have liked to turn his arm over but was resisting the urge to hide.

Harry lifted his hand and very gently ran a finger over the tattoo. Malfoy clenched his fist tighter but didn’t move.

“Who are they?” Harry asked, though he knew already.

“The dead.”

Harry’s heart pounded an uneven beat and then found its rhythm again. He had the urge to look closer, to search the names, but he resisted. He knew the names he’d find.

For an instant, fury clenched Harry’s throat. Then it was gone, and Harry covered the tattoo with his hand, lightly encircling Malfoy’s forearm.

Malfoy lived with these names. He looked at them every day.

Gently, Harry gripped Malfoy’s arm and lifted it. Malfoy watched warily, like he was waiting to see what Harry would do next. Harry had no idea, himself. But he found himself stroking the soft skin of the forearm over the tattoo, feeling the faint scar. He placed a kiss to the inside of the elbow and then traveled down towards the wrist with his mouth.

Malfoy hissed in surprise, but Harry continued his exploration, kissing the snake head and then licking a broad stripe over the tattoo to the base of Malfoy’s hand. Malfoy made another hiss of alarm, but Harry tightened his grip before Malfoy could pull away. He pressed another kiss to the skull head, and then—not wanting to hurt Malfoy—gentled his grip before he moved to Malfoy’s hand.

A part of Harry felt silly, pressing kisses to the palm of Draco Malfoy’s hand. He’d never done anything like this with anyone else but Ginny. But there was something deep and raw about this moment, Malfoy watching Harry explore the tattoo that represented his remorse.

And then—because there _was_ something much too tender about this moment—Harry broke the tension by lapping sloppily at Malfoy’s palm. Malfoy squeaked his protest, but Harry gripped his hand before he could pull away, and smiled against it.

Then he sucked Malfoy’s finger into his mouth.

“ _Ah_ ,” Malfoy gasped.

His finger tasted vaguely of salt, but mostly just of clean skin. Harry took it in to the knuckle, nearly bumping his gag reflex. He drew back, hollowing his cheeks.

The sheets moved as Malfoy shifted his legs beneath them. His hips bucked. The tendons in his arm stood out under Harry’s grip, but this time, he wasn’t trying to pull away.

Harry drew away from the forefinger and laved the thumb, took it into his mouth, applied his teeth to the pad.

“ _Ahhhh!_ ”

Malfoy bucked again. Harry’s heart raced. He knew where this would lead, and he looked forward to it. But also—he’d never before sucked cock. Not that he intended to let that stop him.

So, of course, he just…pulled back the sheets.

Malfoy’s cock stood up to greet him. He shot a smug look at Malfoy, who stared back with glazed eyes.

Harry ran a hand over Malfoy’s hot thigh, knuckles brushing the soft skin of his balls, then gripped the base of Malfoy’s dick. It was insistently hard in that way of morning erections. Harry didn’t want to tease Malfoy—he wanted to taste him—so he only gave one lick to the head of Malfoy’s cock before sliding his mouth down and over it.

Beneath him, Malfoy shuddered. Harry pulled back, sucking the way he’d sucked Malfoy’s finger, careful with his teeth. He tried to remember what Malfoy had done to him. He swirled his tongue, ducked down again, and squeezed Malfoy’s cock in his grip. His hand was slick with spit; he slid it up and down the base of Malfoy’s cock as he bobbed his head in tandem. Probably not the neatest blowjob Malfoy had received, but judging by his reactions, it at least felt good.

Then Malfoy was pushing him off, and Harry pulled back, lips wet, confused. He opened his mouth to ask if he’d done something wrong or unwanted. But Malfoy looked at him, eyes dark. “May I fuck you?”

Harry’s heart hit his ribs. Ah— “Yes.”

Malfoy’s expression softened a fraction. Slightly surprised, maybe. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I mean. I’d like to see what it’s like. You seemed to enjoy it last night, and my previous partners did, too.”

“Maybe you have a magic cock.”

That surprised a laugh out of Harry. “You tell me.”

Instead of replying, Malfoy leaned forward and claimed his mouth. It was a hard, hot kiss.

Malfoy pulled away and said, “On your hands and knees. Okay?”

Harry nodded, though the movement was small, the muscles of his neck tight. He got on his hands and knees, facing away from Malfoy. The position made him feel exposed.

“Mmm,” Malfoy hummed. His hand brushed over Harry’s side—Harry shivered from the touch—and traveled down, over his balls, to his cock. “Wow. You’re really hard for it.”

Harry whimpered.

Malfoy’s thumb swiped over the head of his cock, and Harry felt a smear of moisture spread over the skin. Malfoy pulled his hand away, and a moment later, Harry heard the wet sound of lips and tongue. Presumably Malfoy tasting his thumb. “Mmm.”

Harry rested his forehead against the bed. They had barely got started, and he already felt like he’d been pulled apart.

Malfoy chuckled and rubbed a hand over Harry’s arse, kneading it. His damp thumb left a trail of moistness over Harry’s skin.

“You are delectable. So ready for it. But you’re like that with everything, aren’t you? So ready to dive in, head first.”

As he talked, his hand worked over Harry’s arse, moving closer to the cleft. Then he gently pushed apart his cheeks and slowly dragged his tongue over Harry’s hole. Harry whimpered, and Malfoy blew on it. Did it again. Slowly, almost ponderously, his breath hot against Harry’s moist skin. 

Harry bit his own thumb. He was both relieved and disappointed when Malfoy pulled back—hissed when Malfoy replaced his tongue with a finger, which he used to trace circles around Harry’s hole. Harry shivered from the cool kiss of lube.

“Yes, you seemed to like this. I remember the noises you made. I was so tempted, you know. You are so tempting.”

The finger circled closer, until Malfoy was tracing over the tight ring of muscle. There was a gentle pressure at his entrance as Malfoy circled it teasingly, all the while murmuring to him.

This time, unlike the last, Malfoy pushed it in. He went slowly, but even so, Harry felt like he was being dragged inside out. He couldn’t make a noise.

Malfoy curled over him. “How does it feel?” 

His finger slid in deeper, to the knuckle. Burning. Sliding. 

“Harry?”

Harry could hear his own uneven breath and Malfoy’s, which was tight and shallow.

When Harry didn’t respond, Malfoy dragged his finger slowly out, until just the tip was left inside, as if threatening to take it out.

“No. Please. _Feelsogood_. Keep going,” Harry whispered.

“There you are,” Malfoy breathed, and pushed his finger back in. Slowly, until Harry’s body got used to the intrusion and began to open up around it.

Malfoy finger-fucked him while murmuring wonderful, terrible things. Occasionally, he pulled on Harry’s cock, which made Harry whine and tremble.

Harry remembered something Malfoy had said to him last night: “Two.”

Malfoy pressed a kiss to the center of Harry’s spine. “If you’re sure.”

Harry nodded jerkily.

For a brief, agonizing moment, Malfoy’s hand pulled free. Then, two fingers were pushing into him. In and out.

“Good, you’re taking that so well. Imagine what it will be like to have my cock press into you like this. Filling you up. Would you like that?”

Harry made a helpless noise. _Fuck_.

A second later, he realized he’d said it out loud, and added—in a ragged whisper—“Fuck me.”

Malfoy’s breath hitched.

“Are you sure?” His fingers continued to move in and out as he asked, twisting a little.

“ _Nnng_.”

“I’m sorry. Did you say something? I couldn’t make that out.”

Malfoy’s other hand came to encircle Harry’s aching erection.

“ _Ah-ah-ah_.”

“Sorry, still can’t understand.”

His hand squeezed, then pumped slowly.

“ _Fuck_. Malfoy. Fuck me. Please.”

“Lovely.”

He gave one last deep push of his hand, then he was sliding his fingers out. Harry felt a brief sensation of _loss_ , which was replaced by something blunt and hot pushing against his entrance.

Malfoy pressed in slowly, carefully—pausing each time Harry made a little hiss—until he was all the way in, his hips flush with Harry’s arse. He lifted his hands, fingers brushing over Harry’s side, and gripped Harry’s hips. Malfoy was hot inside him and Harry felt so full that he was afraid he’d split open if he moved. But also—he _had_ to move, or he would die.

“Harry,” Malfoy whispered. “How are you?”

Would Malfoy pull his dick all the way out if he didn’t respond? Harry didn’t want to know. He gave a tight nod.

Malfoy leaned forward, kissed his shoulder. “I’ll make you feel good. May I make you feel good?”

The words, tickling at the nape of his neck, were nearly his undoing.

“Yes. Please.”

Malfoy gave an experimental jerk of his hips. _Sensation_ dragged through Harry, and he groaned.

“Yes,” Malfoy breathed, and then he was whispering filthy nothings into Harry’s ear. “You’re so tight, Harry. So tight for me. I’m gonna make you feel so good. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

Then, he was fucking Harry, the hot drag of his cock hitting Harry’s prostate with every thrust. He was so _Malfoy_ about it—mouthy and smug, a little bit of a show-off, with bursts of aggressive energy—but also: surprisingly tender. Caressing Harry’s sides, pressing kisses down his spine, even as he fucked Harry wide open and told him how he wasn’t going to stop until Harry begged.

He responded to Harry’s reactions—changing pace and rhythm and depth at Harry’s every noise and movement. Harry wanted to grab his cock, but also, he didn’t. When Malfoy’s hot hand squeezed him, he nearly shouted. Saw stars. Tried not to come.

It became a game: how long he could keep from going over the edge. Harry snarled and trembled with the effort. Malfoy pumped Harry’s cock, rolled Harry’s nipples in his fingers. Bit his shoulder. Murmured dirty things in his ears: how Harry was made for his cock, how he was going to fuck Harry raw, that Harry wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.

Slower, deeper—then hard and pounding—as Harry had done to him.

“Come on, let go, you bastard. We both win this one,” Malfoy whispered. “ _Come_.”

He thrust into Harry hard. The wet sound of his hips slamming against Harry’s arse filled the room and he twisted his grip over Harry’s cock, squeezed his nipple, and pressed his hot tongue over the base of Harry’s spine. The combination of sensations together sent Harry over the edge—the tingling warm wave crashed over him, breaking him apart, leaving him in pieces.

Distantly, he was aware of Malfoy pumping, hot, into him. Breath hitching, making a noise Harry hadn’t heard from him before. Hand squeezing Harry’s cock one last time, spasmodically, before slackening.

Malfoy gave a final shuddering roll of his hips before sagging against Harry’s back, skin to sweaty skin. His open mouth rested near Harry’s neck, breath ragged and warm. Harry liked that. Liked the contact, and the feel of Malfoy slowly softening inside of him. Was vaguely disappointed when Malfoy slipped out.

Harry felt the tingle of Malfoy’s magic over him. Then Malfoy drew Harry toward him, and Harry went with it bonelessly.

Malfoy brushed Harry’s sweaty fringe from his forehead. Pressed a kiss to his ear. “Harry. Love. Are you all right?”

“Mm. Yeah.” He smiled languidly at Malfoy. “Definitely liked that.”

Malfoy huffed and rapped him, gently, on the head.


	25. Chapter 25

They dozed for a time, Harry drifting in a pleasant space between dream and waking, until Malfoy’s wand alarm buzzed and sent up sparks. They showered separately, and dressed and packed in silence. Malfoy settled the bill. Harry wasn’t sure of the etiquette in this case, but he vowed to pay for the meals for the day.

They took a more languid drive today. Malfoy drove with his hands loose on the wheel, settled back in his seat. There was no sense of needing to get somewhere. They were simply going. Harry liked that. He watched the sea cliffs and homes and trees pass by. He and Malfoy hadn’t spoken much since waking, which was a contrast to all of the things Malfoy had said to him that morning. Now and then, Harry remembered some of them and felt his face heat. He looked out the window to hide it. The silence between them was comfortable, almost lazy, full of potential.

Harry had slipped into a kind of trance, and only came to as Malfoy turned off into a car park.

“Thor’s Well,” he said.

They stepped out into the wind. Far below, people walked over a landscape of rocks to a place where, every so often, a plume of sea spray shot from a hole in the rocks and was carried sideways by the wind. It looked just like Malfoy’s art, but in motion. A number of people stood perilously close to the hole’s jagged edge, holding up their phones. There were no walls, no railing to separate them from the gaping maw in the rock and the water frothing furiously up through it. It was the kind of casual disregard for danger that Harry expected from wizards, not people without magic.

He and Malfoy walked down a long switch-back trail through trees and past scrubby dune plants, down, down to the level of the rocks. They picked their way across a landscape that looked like it had been crafted by an eccentric magical artist rather than nature. Harry could feel the craggy points of the rock through the soles of his trainers. Water had gathered in the shallow depressions in the rock. Barnacles and mussels and little green sea anemones nestled under the crystalline surface.

Just beyond view, the surf pounded against the rocks. Water sloshed against the sides of Thor’s Well. Every so often, an especially strong surge burst into the air.

“It’s beautiful,” Harry said.

“I know.”

Malfoy was looking at the plume of water, but there was something odd in his tone. Harry didn’t pause to think too long about it. He wanted to get closer to see inside the well. If non-magicals were doing it, surely he could as well.

“Really, Potter?” Malfoy said, but Harry ignored him and stood at the edge, looking in.

The seething water and the tang of salt churned up old memories: sea cliffs and cold spray and Dumbledore. The Inferi belonged to another lifetime, but they lurked there under the black lake in Harry’s mind.

He heard the boom of the surf against the rocks below, and he knew what would happen even before the white water boiled up from the well.

“Harry!”

He turned, though he knew he was already too late. He stumbled on the uneven surface, and suddenly the sharp rocks were rising toward him. Shouts went up behind him. He braced himself for impact, but then—a foot from the barnacle-crusted ground—he was caught as if by a giant invisible hand. Then Malfoy was hauling him up by the scruff of his shirt.

His gaze met Malfoy’s only a split moment before the water splashed down on both of them. Malfoy’s arm hooked around Harry’s waist to brace him, hand still clutching the hawthorn wand. The water pummeled down and down. Then it was over and a wind whipped past them. Voices whooped. Harry looked up into Malfoy’s face, which he couldn’t quite make out through his droplet-spangled glasses.

“Oops.”

“You’re impossible,” Malfoy sighed.

***

For lunch, they found a little cannery near the waterfront. Harry ordered chowder and sourdough bread and long sticks of smoked tuna for both of them, and they found a stone picnic table nearby.

Since Thor’s Well, Malfoy’s hair had been wispy and impossibly soft, floating around in the wind. Harry knew his own hair was extra messy. Drying Charms always did that. Even if Harry hadn’t already known that, he would have suspected something was up from the way Malfoy repeatedly glanced at him, mouth tightening as if Harry’s hair offended him. Harry tried not to smile.

They had waited till they were in the car to cast the Drying Charms, when no non-magicals were looking. Then they dried the damp seats below them. Neither of them mentioned the charm Malfoy had used to catch Harry from falling onto the rocks. Harry hoped that, in the confusion of water erupting, none of the non-magicals had noticed. There was a chance Malfoy would receive a citation. Harry didn’t know enough about American magical laws. But Malfoy didn’t seem bothered about it. He was too busy spelling the salt from the upholstery.

Harry cracked the cover off of his paper bowl of chowder. It steamed in the cool seaside air. It was good—full of dense, soft chunks of potato. The smoked tuna was meaty, almost creamy. But the sourdough, while all right, was not as good as Malfoy’s, Harry was inexplicably pleased to notice.

Harry was only half paying attention to his food, though. He couldn’t stop staring at Malfoy’s fine, soft hair blowing in the wind and the way Malfoy brushed it out of his face every so often.

Malfoy didn’t seem to notice Harry watching. He gazed off toward the horizon. Then his gaze met Harry’s.

“So, what do you actually plan to do when you get back? I don’t suppose you’re honestly interested in taking up hat-selling.”

Despite the warm soup, Harry’s stomach went cold. He looked up at a seagull wheeling overhead. Maybe it was the clear coastal air or the strange, not-unpleasant mood that had emerged between him and Malfoy since the day before, but he found himself telling the truth. “I dunno. I never imagined being anything other than an Auror.”

Predictably, Malfoy snorted. This didn’t offend Harry, though. He would snort at himself, really.

Swirling his spoon through his chowder, Malfoy said, “I supposed it never occurred to you to do anything else?”

“I mean. Yeah. It did.” The truth was, it had passed his mind many times over the years, but his thoughts always stopped with _I don’t know what else I can do._ Chasing Dark wizards was it. The knowledge that he was good for nothing else scared him on a deep level.

“Potter?” Malfoy asked softly.

Harry shouldn’t have been telling Malfoy this, but then, he wouldn’t see him again—at least, not anytime soon—and he needed to say it out loud at least once: “I’m not capable of anything else.”

This time, Malfoy’s derisive snort caught him off guard, and his face heated.

“You’d think that,” Malfoy murmured with a twisty smile. “I know for a fact you can pour a half-decent latte. And I think there’s a hatter who would be thrilled to have you in his service.”

“That’s— That’s true.”

“What do you _want_ to do?”

“Not sell hats.” Harry shrugged. “I dunno.”

The seagull above had been joined by another. They cried out and dived, squabbling over a scrap on the ground.

“I like flying. I wouldn’t mind doing something like Ginny.”

Malfoy hummed.

Harry glanced down from the seagulls. “What do _you_ think I should do?”

“Me? How should I know? It's your life, not mine.”

“Everyone else seems keen on telling me what they think I should do.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “That’s not my problem, is it?”

“Fair.”

Casually, Malfoy said, “You’re not half-bad at sucking cock.”

Harry spit his mouthful of soup back into its bowl.

After he was through choking, he pushed aside the soup bowl; he needed a short break from it. He tore a piece from his bread and tossed it to the gulls.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Malfoy said, eyeing the birds as they swooped and squabbled over the morsel.

“What? It’s nowhere near as good as yours.”

That brought a pleased little smile to Malfoy’s mouth. He glanced at the gulls as the victor took off, two more in pursuit. “Still not a good idea.”

“I’m not scared of birds, Malfoy.”

One eyebrow raised. “Did I imply that you were?”

The retort on Harry’s tongue involved Hippogriffs, and probably wasn’t the most politic thing to say. Harry tore off another little piece and tossed it, half to see how Malfoy would react. He disappointed Harry by returning to his food (though not without rolling his eyes, which was enough to amuse Harry, really).

“So why do you want to renovate Grimmauld Place?”

“What do you mean? It’s falling apart and full of curses.”

“Yes… And what do you care?”

Harry stared. “I live there.”

Malfoy waved his spoon. “Yes. And I lived at the Manor. Now I live in a craftsman house in Portland.”

“I’m not moving.”

At Harry’s hot tone, Malfoy raised both eyebrows. 

Harry calmed his voice. “It belonged to my godfather. Sirius.” His throat was suddenly tight. “He left it to me.”

He thought of the letters again. Lupin. His parents. The Order. Tonks. He threw another piece of bread to the seagulls. A small flock descended on it. 

“Right,” Malfoy murmured. “Well, I wish you all the best with it. It sounds like a large undertaking. I’m sure your godfather would have been happy to see it.”

Actually, Sirius would have cheerfully told Harry to burn the place instead. Had he had a single happy memory there? Maybe Lupin’s letters. But beyond that? The place had held nothing but misery for him. Put like that, Harry’s commitment to clearing it out and fixing it up did sound senseless—for someone like Malfoy, anyway. Malfoy had a family and an ancestral home; he’d grown up with parents and things that belonged to him. Harry had the invisibility cloak, a few photographs of his parents, and a cursed house. 

“Your soup is getting cold,” Malfoy said.

Harry looked up from the gulls. “You sound just like Molly.” 

At that moment, a fleet shape dived down. Wings flapped in his face. A sharp bill nipped his fingers. Then the seagull was flying away, and Harry’s bread was gone. 

Malfoy laughed. “I told you that wasn’t a good idea.”

***

They continued driving.

Maybe it was the lazy energy of the day, maybe it was the salt water, maybe it was the food or the soothing rumble of the car, but Harry found himself falling asleep as he watched the scenery pass by.

“Sorry,” he mumbled at one point, as sleep began to drag him down like an undertow.

“No worries,” Malfoy said, which was so strange to hear from him, Harry thought in that in-between, fuzzy way of being half-asleep.

He dozed, drifting in and out of wakefulness to watch the sky and the tops of trees flash by. He wondered where they were, but then, it didn’t matter because they were _here_ in this endless moment, moving.

“Where are we going?” he asked anyway.

Malfoy was looking forward through the windshield. “I’m taking you somewhere.”

“Okay.”

*** 

Harry came to awareness again when the car slowed down. They turned onto a small side road. The car tires crunched over gravel.

Sitting up, Harry combed his hair back with his fingers. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

Harry looked out at a small building and a little car parking as they passed. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere.”

The road was bordered by shrubs on both sides. It was long and straight and disappeared into the distance. An occasional break in the shrubs showed an endless, flat scrubland.

At last, they reached what looked like a dead end. But then Malfoy turned down a narrow, nearly hidden path, this one marked with potholes.

This time, when they rattled to the end of the road, they really had reached the end. Malfoy parked and led Harry down a sandy path to a beach tucked out of sight by steep dunes.

The water lapped gently at the shore. They were along an inlet, not the ocean side, looking across the water at buildings on the near-distant shore. Gulls perched on the wooden pilings out on the water. The air had a sharp tang.

Beneath Harry’s feet, the sand was strewn with little multi-colored rocks and pieces of driftwood. He leaned down and picked up a smooth red stone and a pale yellow one and one that was green.

“Luna and Ginny showed me this spot the first time we came to the coast. I like to come here sometimes and look for stones.” Malfoy was looking down at the ground as he said it, but Harry got the impression that he wasn’t really seeing it.

“It’s peaceful,” Harry said.

“It is.”

Harry rubbed his thumb over the stones and looked out over the water with Malfoy. Malfoy’s hair floated around his face. He thought of Malfoy driving down the narrow road on his own and picking his way down to the beach and standing here, like he was right now, watching the gulls chuckle on the pilings.

Malfoy let out a startled noise as Harry hauled him in for a kiss. His mouth tasted like salt from the ocean spray. He kissed back, sweet and slow. They were the last two people at the edge of the world.

A gull laughed, and they parted. Malfoy blinked, looking as surprised and confused as Harry felt.

Clearing his throat, Harry released Malfoy’s arm and took a step back.

“So, what do we…just search for rocks?”

Malfoy ran a hand over his mouth. “Yeah. Rocks.”

They wandered down the beach in opposite directions. Now and then, Harry glanced up to see Malfoy’s small form picking along the shore. He had rolled up his trouser legs, and he must have taken his shoes off, because he was calf-deep in the water. Shielding his eyes from the sun, Harry watched him bend and skim a hand over the ground.

Some time later, they met back together, and Harry showed Malfoy his haul of stones. He had spent some time looking for the most beautiful ones to show Malfoy, but Malfoy only frowned. He plucked several from Harry’s hand and tossed them onto the ground.

“Oi!”

“Those were nothing, Potter.”

“That was agate! That’s what you said it looked like!”

“That was a piece of sea glass.”

Harry frowned. “How am I supposed to know?”

Malfoy smirked, though it was soft. “That’s what you have me for.”


	26. Chapter 26

“Do you want to try it?”

Harry realized it was the second time the brewer had asked him the question.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Try…?”

“The Carbonation Charm.”

“That’d be— I didn’t quite catch the gist of it. Would you mind showing me again?”

“Absolutely.”

She smiled. She was his height, and she wore her long red hair in a plait coiled at the back of her head in a way that made her seem like a no-nonsense kind of person, but she was being very patient with him. This might have been because, first thing in the morning, he had apparently impressed her with his knowledge of timing and Stasis Charms, and thus she thought he was some kind of culinary genius. So she was probably being much more patient with his wandering focus than she otherwise might have been.

This time, he tried to pay attention when she went through the wand movements and the incantation. It was difficult. His mind kept drifting.

For one thing, he was tired. He and Malfoy had arrived back in Portland late the night before. Harry had insisted that Malfoy drive to his own home rather than dropping him at the farm.

“I’ll Apparate from your house, or I can take the Floo.”

Maybe a part of him had hoped that they would make it up to Malfoy’s bedroom for the night, but by the time they got back to Malfoy’s house, the quiet between them had turned strange; the energy had changed. After helping Harry sort his things out of the car, Malfoy offered his Floo.

“Probably easier with the bag,” he’d said. “And it’s late. Wouldn’t want to explain to Luna and Ginny why I returned you home with an arm missing.”

They hesitated a moment at the fireplace, and a weird, charged moment passed in which Harry wanted to kiss Malfoy but didn’t know whether it would be welcome. For an instant, Malfoy’s gaze flickered to Harry’s mouth. A thrill went through Harry.

“Here’s the powder,” Malfoy said.

“Oh. Er. Thanks.” Harry took a handful. It felt soft and cool in his hand, like flour. “And—thanks for the trip. That was really great.”

“Any time,” Malfoy said, voice and face inscrutable.

Then Harry took the Floo back to the farm, where Luna was still awake. She asked how the trip had gone, and told Harry that she had arranged for him to shadow one more job the next day. Since his trip was coming to a close, she wanted to make it a special one. And, well, he’d shown interest in learning about beer, so she had asked Charlotte of Sassy Spider Magical Brewery if Harry could learn about their process.

Still confused about the trip—it had gone so well but ended so strangely and abruptly—he didn’t know how to say no to Luna, especially when she had that beaming expression on her face and had clearly stayed up just to tell him. So, he had thanked her. And now he was following Charlotte—“Call me Charlie”—around the brew space as she told him how they made their beer.

“And you bring the wand up like this at the end,” she was saying, as Harry reined his attention in again. “And end with a downward motion.”

“All right.” He cleared his throat and turned to the pitcher of water she’d set out for him to practice on. “Er…” He made the wand movement and stumbled through the incantation from what he _thought_ she’d said, though he couldn’t care less about carbonating water. Or “warts”—a weird name for the liquid that would become beer. But then, they were wizards, so that kind of thing didn’t really surprise him.

Miraculously, it worked for him. The water bubbled up like a beer that had been shaken before it was opened.

“Fantastic!” Charlie said. “We’ll make a brewer out of you yet.”

Harry smiled faintly.

The brewery was pleasant enough, filled with huge barrels and bags of grain and smells of malt and something fruity. No non-magical machinery here. The brew space was done all in mismatched woods that Charlie told him were reclaimed from old buildings in Europe, which is where she’d taken the brewing methods from, as well.

“Though not much has changed in several millennia,” Charlie had said while taking him through the process, from milling the grains to mixing them in hot water to straining the liquid and adding an array of herbs, fruits, and goops. She went on a lot like Malfoy had about the origin of the grains and relations with the farmers, but Harry wasn’t too interested. His gaze drifted to the ropes hanging from the ceiling beams, the pile of mushy grains sitting in a tub, the big glass jars of herbs—and he wondered, then, where Malfoy brewed potions for Luna and Ginny. Luna had told him about Malfoy’s brewing, but Harry hadn’t seen any evidence of it. Did he have a potions lab? Ginny had said something about Wizard Space in his wardrobe. Harry had assumed it was for clothes—but was it?

“And that’s the last step to making non-magical beer,” Charlie said. “Once it’s carbonated, it’s ready for the taproom. But we only serve a couple of non-magical varieties. Most of our customers come for our _unique_ selection. How good is your potions knowledge?”

“Uh…”

“That’s all right. Mine isn’t the best, either. I’m a brewer, not a brewer. We’ve got a Potions master for the formulations. Samantha. All we need to do is add the special ingredients at the times and temperatures she tells us, which isn’t unlike non-magical beer brewing. Our beers don’t fall under the division for regulated potions, so we don’t have to be licensed the same way as potions breweries. This gives us a little more freedom in some ways, although it limits our scope so we don’t cross the line.”

She showed him the metal mesh baskets they placed the dry additions into rather than adding them directly into the warts—“since we don’t filter our beers.” Harry vaguely recognized some of the ingredients from Potions class and from Luna’s herb room at the farm. Did Malfoy know about these beers? Of course he had to. Malfoy knew virtually everything about beer and coffee and potions and magical and non-magical life in Oregon.

After the tour and lecture, she directed Harry to attend the small, everyday tasks: checking the temperature and pressure in the barrels, sanitizing the equipment, running cooling and heating charms, adding carbonation to the barrels that would be served soon in the taproom, pulling moisture from the steam so the humidity didn’t get too high in the building. Once he got the hang of it, it was pretty automatic work for Harry, and he didn’t mind it. But he was relieved when Charlie called him over to a counter at the side of the brew space, thanked him for his help, and offered him a taste-testing session to round out his experience.

To Charlie’s amusement, Harry steered clear of the Veritabeer, though she assured him it didn’t compel you to tell the truth like Veritaserum. He did try the Deftly Dancing Dubbel and was surprised at how smoothly he shuffled around the nearest barrel. Then the Sweetly Singing Saison: his singing voice came out deep, raspy, and in tune, and Charlie laughed at the surprise he knew showed on his face. Then he tried the Brewmaster’s Beer, which he could have used these last couple of weeks because it immediately supplied to mind the elements of all of the beers he drank after it, which were two: The Hindsight 20/20 Tripel, which was supposed to help you come up with all of the things you normally wouldn’t think of to say until an hour after the relevant conversation, though Harry couldn’t tell if it was working because there was nothing _to_ say, really, and his problem had always been things coming out of his mouth that shouldn’t. And the Prince(ss) Charming Lambic, which Charlie said was their bedrock brew, because it did what people typically wanted beer to do and _thought_ beer was doing (when in fact they were only being drunk and obnoxious): brought their natural charm and charisma to the fore (if they had any).

“This one has actual raspberries in it,” Harry said, with some surprise.

Charlie laughed. “It does! Our Brewmaster’s Beer is a marvel, but also a bit like us shooting ourselves in the foot. Since guests can taste the quality in our brews, we have another incentive to do things right. So we use fresh berries for the Princess Charming and preserve them in stasis for some limited release runs when they’re out of season.”

Harry smiled charmingly and said, “You can taste the difference.”

Before he took the Floo home, Harry chose several bottles to take with him: a large bottle of Sound Effects Steam Beer for Ginny and Luna, because he thought they’d enjoy making animal noises at each other, a bottle of the Deftly Dancing Dubbel for Malfoy (as a joke, really), a Brewmaster’s Beer for himself, and a bottle of Daydream Doppelbock, which he got last, on impulse.

“ _That’s_ a good one,” Charlie said, with a grin.

Harry, though embarrassed, replied smoothly: “They’re all good.”

The house was empty when he returned to the farm. It was just past lunchtime, and he knew Luna and Ginny had a lot of work to do fixing some Disillusionment Charms around the forest before a non-magical group arrived. He put the beers in the fridge, hesitating a moment before taking the Daydream Doppelbock. Ginny and Luna didn’t expect him back till dinnertime, which meant he had some hours to kill. That, and he was still slightly tipsy from the beer-tasting—and he was curious.

Harry chilled a glass with a charm and poured some of the doppelbock. It had a nice head, and a deep brown color. He took a cautious sip. It had a unique malty flavor due to the special variety of malt used, but more than that, it was dominated by the sweet tartness of real cherries. What would Malfoy think of that?

The thought came with a vivid image of Malfoy’s sharp profile as he drove. “You should probably be sitting down for that one,” Charlie had told him with a grin—and maybe in private, Harry reckoned as he glanced in shock at the label, which depicted an anthropomorphic letter D with hooded eyes and with large cherries floating above its head like thought bubbles, each with a little drawing of a daydream inside. 

Harry collected the glass and the bottle and walked as calmly as he could to his room. A warm floaty feeling worked its way through him, and he didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the “special effect.” He set the bottle and glass down on the bedside table, stuffed a couple of pillows against the headboard, and sat back in bed. He’d left the curtain open. Through it, he saw blue skies and the tops of trees. He briefly considered closing it, but the only person likely to fly by and see inside was Ginny, and even that was doubtful—and Harry liked looking at the sky and the occasional bird as it flew by. He liked sitting back in the pillows. He liked the bed. He liked the beer with its tang of cherry. He liked Malfoy.

 _God_. He liked Malfoy.

He liked his voice and his smile, even those smirks, but especially the genuine smiles, the unguarded ones. He liked his hands and his _tongue_. That tongue. Harry shivered.

Exhaling, he sank deeper into the pillows and let his head rest against the headboard. Popped his trouser button with his thumb. Took another pull of the beer.

His mind drifted to walking on the beach at dusk. He could smell the salt spray, could see the bright points of the bonfires and Malfoy’s darker form against the deep purple of near-dark. Could feel the way his body cut the wind, creating a calm for Harry to walk in.

Except this time, Harry’s feet were bare and sinking into the wet sand. The wind tousled his hair. Malfoy was close enough that Harry could feel the warmth of him at his side. Their knuckles brushed, once, unintentionally. Harry made them brush again, this time deliberately. When Malfoy did not pull away, Harry slipped their hands together. Malfoy’s was warm and dry. His longer fingers parted to thread with Harry’s.

The sound of the surf rolled in and out, slowly. They walked and walked, and the immense silhouette of Haystack Rock never seemed to get closer—until they were standing in its lee.

In reality, they’d never made it quite to the rock. There was nothing to see when it was that dark, so they’d turned back to the car. But now, they stopped near its base, and Malfoy tugged Harry’s hand, drawing him close.

The scene warped. They were standing in front of Malfoy’s Floo. Malfoy held both of Harry’s hands in his own, running his thumbs over Harry’s knuckles. The simple gesture was so intimate, and the doppelbock made it feel so real. 

He could be daydreaming about anything, but he was daydreaming about holding hands with Malfoy. 

“What do you want?” Malfoy said.

“Hm?”

Malfoy squeezed his hands. “We’re standing in front of my Floo.”

“So we are.” He curled his fingers against Malfoy’s palms. “I don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t.”

“That simple, huh?”

A snort. “It can be.”

Harry looked down at where they touched. “I like your hands.”

“I suspected, with how you’re clinging to them.”

“Berk. I’m not clinging to them.”

“Not at all,” Malfoy said, with a smile in his voice.

There was a smile on his face, too, when Harry looked up. A rare soft smile. It was ridiculously sappy. Ginny would never let him live it down if she saw what his daydream—his daydream of _Malfoy_ —consisted of.

He said, “I like it here.” In the daydream, in Malfoy’s living room, Malfoy’s hands in his. “I’d like to stay.”

Malfoy scoffed but didn’t let go. “All right. But if you’re staying, I’m taking you to look at my etchings again.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

“Good.”

Malfoy drew him towards the stairs. The scene shifted once more, and they were next to Malfoy’s bed. This time, Harry didn’t find the etchings so disturbing. They were starkly beautiful and, uh, quite inspiring.

“They are, aren’t they?” Malfoy said. His thumb rubbed along Harry’s skin above the collar of his shirt. “Take this off?”

Malfoy hadn’t asked him like this before. It was…nice. It was mad, but. But nice. Especially with the way Malfoy was looking at him, eyes dark, focused on him.

“You, too,” Harry said, and took his shirt off.

Malfoy shucked his, as well. They stepped out of their trousers, their pants.

Fuzzily, in the reality of Luna and Ginny’s guest bedroom, Harry slid his hand into his trousers. In the daydream, Malfoy slid his hands over Harry’s flanks, down over the top of his arse, up to his chest, thumbs rubbing over Harry’s nipples.

“ _Ah_ ,” he gasped. “How does that feel so good?”

“Mm. Nerve endings?”

“Must—must be.”

Malfoy chuckled. Lowered his head. Took one of Harry’s nipples into his mouth. Rolled it between his teeth. Laved it with his tongue. Meanwhile, one hand trailed down to fondle his balls lazily. Harry planted his hands against Malfoy’s shoulders, steadying himself.

“Not—not fair,” he gasped.

“Mm?” Malfoy licked his nipple, pulled back. “What’s that?”

“Don’t stop.”

Malfoy teased with the tip of his tongue. “What’s not fair?”

“You— Just— Everything feels so good with you.”

“Are you complaining?”

“No. Merlin. Just. It’s not supposed to be this good.”

“Mm.” Malfoy lavished attention on Harry’s other nipple while rolling first one testicle and then the other gently between his forefinger and thumb. His other hand traced over Harry’s thigh, over the skin behind his balls, to his arsehole. Harry sucked in a breath at the sensation.

Lifting his head, Malfoy licked over Harry’s collarbone, his throat, the corner of his jaw.

“Lie back in bed,” he whispered. “Spread your legs.”

Harry did. Malfoy settled himself between them. He fit so well there.

“God, you make me crazy,” Malfoy whispered. He slid a hand up Harry’s inner thigh, and Harry bent his other knee, steepling the leg, giving Malfoy easier access.

Malfoy’s fingers were already slick, somehow, when they brushed over Harry’s hole. Daydream. This was a daydream.

“Ssshh,” Malfoy said, though Harry hadn’t made a sound. He teased his first two fingers into Harry. In the daydream, there was no burn. Just the slick sensation of Malfoy’s fingers pushing in.

“Merlin. I like that too much.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah— Just—”

A knock at the door. “Harry?”

The feel of pressure inside of him persisted, but Malfoy’s bedroom blurred. Harry clung to the feeling of Malfoy’s hand against his thigh.

“Harry, are you sleeping?”

The dream of Malfoy cracked and fell away. He had a hand around his cock and his trousers half pushed down over his legs.

“Ah.”

He let go his grip and rocked into a full seated position. He felt soft around the edges, even as his erection ached sharply.

A long silence passed. When Harry thought he might have control over his voice, he said, “Luna?”

“Hi, Harry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Harry rubbed a hand over his face. “No. I wasn’t sleeping, Luna. What’s up?”

“Nothing at all, really. We thought you might be hungry, though, and Ginny wanted to take you to one more pub before you go back. I thought it would be nice for you to visit Sassy Spider, but as a guest this time. You can tell us what you learned about the beers.”

Harry rested his forehead against his fist. With the other hand, he stroked a thumb over his cock.

“Yeah. That sounds great.”

“Fantastic. Ginny’s asking Draco.”

“Of course she is.”


	27. Chapter 27

Luna and Ginny were already waiting for him in the living room when he came down twenty minutes later. A cool shower had cleared away most of the daydreamy driftiness—and an orgasm had, uh, certainly helped in that—but Harry was still tipsy from the alcohol. He’d briefly considered asking if they kept a Sobering Potion around, but they were headed to a brewpub, after all, and if Malfoy was going to be there, it probably wouldn’t hurt to be a little well-along already.

Luna smiled. “Hi, Harry. Would you like to do the honors of Apparating us? Since you know where we’re going.”

“Er…”

Ginny took one glance at Harry and said, “I bet he’s tired from his day. Maybe I’ll get this one.”

In his tipsy state, Harry was so thankful for the intervention that he leaned forward to kiss her cheek, which caused Ginny to shriek and Luna to demand her girlfriend back. Luna was laughing while she shouted, but she did sound a bit serious about it.

Ginny clucked her tongue, hooked an arm around Luna—kissed her—grabbed Harry, and Apparated them. They appeared in the pub’s entrance garden. Earlier, Harry had looked at it through the windows of the brew space. From where he stood on the gravel path now, he could just see the window he’d looked out of. It was half-hidden by a tall rosemary bush, and a reflection of the sky obscured a view of the inside.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? We were so excited when it opened a few years ago. They have outside seating on the other side with a small rose test garden. Did you get to see it?”

“No. Not really. Mostly just a lot of beer.”

As they made their way to the door, Harry didn’t know if it was anticipation that he felt, or—what. Some dismay, probably. It might have been the lingering effects of the Daydream Doppelbock, or just the recent vivid memory it’d left, but he could still feel Malfoy’s fingers and tongue, his hand in Harry’s, his focused gaze. That memory mixed with the uneasy recollection of the way they’d truly parted the night before.

The atmosphere inside the taproom was similar to that of the brew space: reclaimed wood, barrels (these ones used as table bases), jars of herbs, pieces of brewing equipment hung as decoration. In fact, it almost looked like an extension of the brew space, minus the piles of wet grains and with the addition of paintings depicting Medieval-looking people drinking from tankards. Hard to tell, but it seemed like at least some of the background babble came from the talking portraits—and, judging from one group of men in a nearby painting, more than a little of the laughter.

“They almost never stop,” Ginny said. “I still have no idea what they’re laughing at.”

Luna opened her mouth as if to respond, and then her eyes tracked to the side and her face lit up. “Pansy!”

Harry followed her gaze across the room, and his stomach gave a jolt when he recognized Malfoy in one of the corner booths. He was wearing the baseball cap pulled down low, nearly to his eyes. And Pansy Parkinson was sitting next to him.

It had been years since he’d seen Parkinson. She and Malfoy were turned towards each other with wide smiles, and Harry’s stomach jumped again, but not in a pleasant way this time. Because—Harry didn’t like that smile. It wasn’t the same smile he’d become fond of over the last couple of weeks. It reminded him of a time he would rather forget.

He liked it even less when Parkinson looked up and spotted them. Harry held back as Ginny and Luna made their way across the room. His gaze met Malfoy’s. He couldn’t quite discern the expression on Malfoy’s face in the shadow of the hat.

“Darlings!” Parkinson said, standing as they approached. She pressed a kiss to Ginny’s grinning mouth—no protest from Luna this time—and then turned to Luna to kiss both of her cheeks. Harry’s stomach continued to twist around.

“What are you _doing_ here, bitch?” Ginny said.

“We weren’t expecting you back for another week,” Luna said.

“Oh, you know. I missed you both too much. I got into town today and had to stop by and terrorize this one. Next thing I know, I’m being dragged to the pub.”

Harry’s gaze found Malfoy again. Malfoy nodded at him. “Potter.”

Now that he was closer, Harry still didn’t know how to interpret the expression on Malfoy’s face. He wanted to pull him aside while the others were busy, but—as if hearing his name made her aware of his presence—Parkinson turned and said, “Potter. It’s good to see you.”

She held out her hand. The rest of his friends were watching, and Harry didn’t want to be belligerent—and, really, he didn’t have a _problem_ with Parkinson anymore—so he had no choice but to take it. Parkinson’s grip was light, hardly a grip at all, and Harry didn’t put any effort into it, himself.

They sat, Harry taking the inside with Ginny next to him and Luna on the outside. The arrangement felt odd to Harry—as if Malfoy and Parkinson were a couple, and he was the third wheel to Ginny and Luna.

At least Malfoy was sitting across from him. And he was wearing the baseball cap. That was significant, right? That—out of his hats—he was wearing Harry’s favorite?

Before he could try to catch Malfoy’s eye again, the server appeared to take their drink order. Apparently, they had all been there before because all of them ordered their brews with minimal menu-perusing, including Parkinson. Luna and Ginny ordered beers with rhyming names he didn’t remember Charlie mentioning, while Parkinson ordered a Dragon’s Breath (which seemed appropriate for her), and—curiously—Malfoy ordered one of the non-magical beers, although it was a coffee porter, so maybe not a surprise. The server came to Harry last, and Harry felt the attention of the rest of the group on him.

“A Brewmaster’s Beer, please,” he said, proud that he could smoothly give his own drink order.

“Cheater,” Ginny muttered under her breath.

“Good choice, Harry!” To the others, Luna said, “He was job shadowing the brewer today.”

“Job shadowing!” Parkinson exclaimed. “Do tell.”

“Potter quit the Aurors,” Malfoy said. “He’s been experiencing other options.” He lifted his water glass and smiled at Harry over the rim. This was another smile Harry hadn’t seen in a while. Taunting. Though, it was tinged with a salacious edge. Between that and the slight emphasis on “experiencing other options,” Harry didn’t know what to make of it.

“ _Really_ ,” Parkinson said.

Harry blinked. “Yeah. Sort of.”

At that, one corner of Malfoy’s mouth quirked up. Then, he launched into a story about Harry’s (mis)adventures with bread-baking and hat-selling and latte-pouring.

Over the past fortnight, Harry had come to enjoy Malfoy teasing him, but this was not the same. Malfoy wore the mocking half-grin as he told Parkinson about Harry blundering with the ovens and Harry’s atrocious taste in hats. Malfoy didn’t meet Harry’s eyes, and Harry had the strange impression that he wasn’t there at all, except when Parkinson—laughing—flicked glances at him.

“Harry’s helped around the farm, too,” Luna put in suddenly. “And he’s helped with the Quidditch camp. He’s really good at teaching, and he’s really good at flying. Aren’t you, Harry? You’re very good at collecting eggs, too.”

All of the gazes at the table were now turned to him, and he realized some kind of response was required. “Er.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go on to teach Quidditch at Hogwarts,” Parkinson said, in that loud way she had of speaking, which made it sound like an insult.

Maybe he should have ordered the Hindsight 20/20 beer or at least the Prince(ess) Charming one so he could charmingly deflect the attention. But he still had some of the Daydream Doppelbock in his system, and he wasn’t keen on seeing how it mixed with another effect. Not in public, not with Malfoy sitting across from him and Parkinson looking at him like a shark. 

“Ginny’s a fantastic teacher,” Harry said, desperate to move the conversation away from him. “I can’t believe what she’s done with the Quidditch camp. I mean, I _can_ believe. She’s done a brilliant job.”

“It’s all right, Harry. Don’t sprain your tongue,” Ginny said, patting his hand.

Parkinson gave him an expression like she recognized his tactic to change the topic, but chose to graciously go with it anyway. “How _is_ the camp this year?”

Ginny told Parkinson about their latest batch of students and some of the modifications she’d made to the curriculum while Malfoy listened with apparent rapt attention and Harry slouched back in the seat, trying to keep a frown from his face. It would be so easy to nudge his leg against Malfoy’s. He could even take Malfoy’s hand—would just need to sit forward a little—and Apparate them out of there. Malfoy’s bedroom or his own; he knew both. But Malfoy looked so remote and closed off, head turned to face the others, giving Harry his profile.

Their drinks came, and the conversation turned to Luna’s work with the Thestrals. Parkinson asked about the Thestrals by name, and she asked other questions about the house and the farm that made it obvious that she’d been a part of the household for a long time—since the beginning. She and Ginny and Luna and Malfoy fell into a well-established rhythm of conversation.

It occurred to Harry that _he_ was the visitor here, not Parkinson. Though she’d been traveling, she was a part of this family that Ginny and Luna and Malfoy had made in America, just the way Harry had his own life back in England: Hermione and Ron and Teddy and Andromeda. And Grimmauld Place, which needed him to fix it up.

Luna interrupted the conversation to let out a musical burp and a single purple bubble that floated, shining, from her mouth towards the ceiling.

“First bubble!” Ginny crowed, and gave Luna a grinning high-five. “How do you always do that?”

“But I never make as many as you.”

Ginny opened her mouth to reply, then paused, and a strange expression came over her face. She thumped her chest, frowned, and let out a loud burp and three pink bubbles.

“Honestly, you two!” Parkinson said.

“Which one is that?” Harry asked, and took a gulp from Ginny’s glass.

“That’s mine!”

Parkinson laughed in delight, a sharp sound that wasn’t kind.

Malfoy shook his head in mock ruefulness. “I give up. He will never learn the finer appreciation for good beer.”

Harry clicked his glass down a little harder than intended because of the alcohol already in his system. “Wheat beer with strawberry puree. Dry-hopped.”

Parkinson’s eyes went round, and then she laughed again. “You cheated! You’re drinking that Brewmaster’s.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow. He was aware of Malfoy looking at him, but he didn’t turn. Ginny pinched him on the ribs and reclaimed her beer.

Luna leaned forward. “But Harry hasn’t had any of his beer yet.”

Everyone’s gaze turned to his untouched glass.

“He’s been drinking his water,” Luna said.

“I was saving it for my food,” Harry muttered.

“That’s really impressive, Harry.”

Parkinson gave him a speculative look and slid her own beer over. “Tell me what you think of that one, Potter.”

Harry couldn’t see any reason not to, and Malfoy was watching, so he took a drink. “That’s. Some kind of fruit. And…I have no idea what that is. Something spicy.”

“Not bad. Guava and habaneros.”

“And what’s it do?”

“Always takes a few minutes to work its way up,” Parkinson said. “Should be any minute now. Here we go.” A stream of smoke trickled from her mouth. She smiled, and the smoke curled around her lips.

“A little like Firewhiskey,” Harry said.

“ _Much_ more sophisticated than Firewhiskey.” She flicked her fingers in the direction of Malfoy’s glass. “And what about this one?”

Harry met Malfoy’s gaze, and his stomach dropped. He was in bed with him again, looking at Malfoy down the length of his own body, where Malfoy was nestled between his legs.

Malfoy nudged the glass toward Harry. “Go on, then.”

Harry took a slower sip from Malfoy’s glass—longer than was strictly polite—and licked a stray drop from the rim before setting it back down. “Porter. They add single origin coffee beans.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened.

“Looks like you’ve found your match!” Parkinson cried.

Ginny snorted. “Draco taught him everything he knows.”

“Did he _really_ , now?”

“He spent a day with the brewmaster. Of course he knows what’s in it,” Malfoy said, taking up his glass again. But Harry was sure there were patches of pink on his cheeks.

Parkinson was still giving Malfoy a considering look. Then her gaze traveled to Malfoy’s hat, and she said, “What _is_ it with you and non-magical accessories, anyway?”

She plucked the hat from his head and dropped it onto her own, turning the bill so it pointed sideways.

“I think it suits him,” Ginny said.

“It suits you, too,” Luna said.

Parkinson preened and held up her phone to take a picture of herself and a hatless Malfoy. When she was done, she did not give the hat back. Malfoy combed his fingers through his hair. It looked a little flatter than usual.

The conversation turned to Parkinson’s recent travels through Italy. Parkinson recounted tales of Venice and Naples animatedly while smoke trickled from her mouth and Ginny and Luna’s colored bubbles floated around her.

Their meals came, and they talked about pop culture and travel and food. By the time the conversation came around to Harry and Grimmauld Place, Harry had drunk the Brewmaster’s Beer and a purple bubble beer and had joined Luna in trying to blow more bubbles than Ginny. (Harry’s stomach swooped every time Malfoy looked his way and rolled his eyes. Harry managed to blow one bubble into his face when Malfoy was focused on Luna, where it popped, obviously startling him, and his expression transformed into something part irritation, part suppressed laughter, and Harry thought for an instant that he’d cracked whatever strange wall was between them, but then Malfoy sniffed and drawled something dismissive.) Parkinson wanted to know what kinds of renovations Harry had planned for Grimmauld. It turned out she had some kind of interest in magical buildings, which had something to do with her travels.

He shrugged carelessly. “Clear the curses. Make it livable. Probably take off the Fidelius.”

That earned a sharp look from Ginny.

“No real use for it anymore, is there? Especially if I sell it.”

“Oh!” Luna said.

Across from him, Malfoy stared at him with an unreadable expression, and Harry tried not to be pleased at the attention from him.

“It’s a possibility,” he said. “It did belong to Sirius, but he hated it. And it was the Order’s headquarters, but that’s been disbanded since the war. No reason not to look for somewhere else in London, or maybe out in the countryside. Somewhere I could go for a fly.”

“That sounds lovely, Harry,” Luna said. “You should be happy where you live.”

There was a beat of silence, into which the people in the painting by the door burst into a loud round of laughter.

“The spicy dill pickle should be ready soon,” Luna said, in that wonderful way she had of suddenly changing the subject. “You’ve come back just at the right time, Pansy.”

“But I call dibs for the coffee shop,” Malfoy said.

From there, the conversation turned to Luna’s experiments with pickled herbs and garlic scapes and other things Harry had never heard of before. Malfoy glanced at Harry more as the evening progressed, but never when Harry was looking at him.

“And what about you?” Parkinson said to Malfoy. She’d turned the hat to a rakish angle. “Did you ever take my advice and find an assistant manager to help with your disgusting schedule?”

“I did find someone to help cover, and I’m taking a reasonable amount of time off, thank you.”

Though he wasn’t completely certain, Harry thought Malfoy suppressed a little glance in his direction.

Parkinson sniffed. “You’re never going to meet anyone if you’re always making coffee.”

“Pansy!” Malfoy hissed. He snatched his hat back and jammed it on his head. “I meet plenty of people all day.” He said it as if it were a joke, but there was an edge to his tone.

Ginny looked between Malfoy and Parkinson and Harry. Luna smiled faintly at Harry. Parkinson glanced at Harry, as well. Malfoy busied himself taking a pull from his beer.

Ginny, Luna, and Parkinson shared a chocolate cake with chocolate stout ice cream, then they were standing to go. By then, the Daydream Doppelbock had long since worn off, and whenever Harry looked at Malfoy, he saw him only as he was: tight-jawed, half-hidden beneath his hat, fully buttoned-up in his white shirt. Harry still hadn’t had a chance to talk with him alone. He thought he might have had a chance when Luna got them all up to tour the little rose garden outside, but Malfoy had walked ahead with Pansy while Luna and Ginny, hand in hand, gave him a running narration of the rose varieties and their origin. (The garden had its own rose curator and team of gardeners. Wizards from all over the world sent enchanted varieties to the little garden to test things like their color, curse and disease resistance, and magical properties. Luna’s words flowed through Harry. He only paid half attention. The rest of his focus was on Malfoy sauntering ahead, pausing to rub rose petals in his fingers.)

Anyway, it was fine that he hadn’t got a chance to talk to Malfoy; he wasn’t sure what he would say to him, now. He’d already thanked him for the coast trip.

They said goodbye to each other in the entrance garden next to a gnarled pear tree. Parkinson had decided to stay with Malfoy for a few days, to Harry’s relief and dismay. That killed any idea of visiting Malfoy again before he left for England, but at least his peace with Luna and Ginny wouldn’t be disturbed.

The sensation of Apparition was even more uncomfortable on the trip home. Luna took them, having only had the one beer. Harry felt sick and displaced when they got back.

“You okay, Harry?” Ginny asked, with a look of concern and suspicion.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. I think I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

Not that he thought he could get any sleep. What he wanted to do was go for a fly, but he was too drunk for that. Luna probably did have a Sobering Potion sitting around, if he asked. But then, he didn’t want to be sober right now. He didn’t know if it would make the image of Malfoy and Parkinson laughing together better or worse in his mind. He didn’t know if being sober would make the idea of going back to England better or worse.

He kicked his shoes off at the back door and went to slip on the sandals Ginny had brought for him soon after he’d first arrived. Maybe he’d take a walk through the garden before going upstairs—breathe some air and get lost on the twisted path and clear his mind.

Slipping his foot into the first sandal, he felt the smooth round surface of an egg just before he applied his weight. He heard the crunch and felt the thick, wet splatter.

He froze, one hand against the wall for balance. He didn’t have to apply a _Lumos_ to know it was one of the little pink eggs. His heart plummeted.

“Harry?”

“Sorry, Ginny. It was one of the eggs.”

“ _Tsk_. That little terror. Hold on. Lift your foot.” She cast a _Scourgify_ for him. “No worries. It happens at least once a month here.”

In a minute, she had the mess cleaned.

“Thanks,” Harry said, but he didn’t feel any better. He could still feel the crushing sensation under his foot, the tiny explosion.


	28. Chapter 28

Harry found Luna in the library downstairs, half-hidden behind teetering stacks. He had only known to look for her there because the door had been left open, and he would have walked back out again if he hadn’t heard the _swish_ of a page flipping.

“Luna?”

Her face appeared above the books. “Oh, hullo, Harry! I didn’t hear you come in. How are you this morning?”

“I’m all right.” Better, now that he’d found her. He’d woken feeling out of sorts, only to find the house filled with light and with dappled, shifting leaf shadows—but empty. “What are you reading?”

“This one that you and Draco brought back from the bookshop.” She lifted it so he could see the cover. He remembered it only vaguely as the one Malfoy had taken from the high shelf. His mind had been on other things at the time. That thought sent a confusing stab of emotion through him, and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

“Is it any good?”

“It’s fantastic!” With a few fluid waves of her wand, she cleared the stacks of books, revealing floor space and a rickety chair next to her own. “Would you like to sit down?”

Harry did, and Luna told him everything she had learned from the book while he tried his best to follow her words. Their rhythm kept pulling him in; Luna was soothing to listen to, and the more he relaxed, the more he missed what she was actually saying. It had something to do with the sick tree, the one she had been trying to heal since he’d arrived.

He was going to miss Luna. It wasn’t the same with Hermione, who muttered to herself and asked brisk questions and expected him to have answers. He was going to miss the messy coziness of the hidden downstairs library.

“So it looks like there’s nothing we can do for the land right now,” Luna was saying. “But the good news is, once we transplant it, it should be fine.”

“You’re going to transplant the tree?”

“Yes! It’s not the right time of year now, but I think with the right spellwork we should be able to gather enough of the roots for it to settle into its new home without causing it too much shock. We’ll probably need a few people, though. These kinds of spells always work better when done together.”

“I can help.”

“That’s great! Draco says he might be available, as well.”

Harry’s stomach dipped. “That’s nice,” he said, automatically.

“It is! He’ll be over after work, which is perfect, really, because there’s a song we need to sing first, and herbs we need to burn. It won’t do to relocate it without blessing the new land. Would you like to see the location? I’ll make us breakfast first. I never did eat. I had a dream about this chapter and came down. I suppose the sun will have risen by now.”

***

In the end, it was the five of them: Harry, Ginny, Luna, Malfoy, and Parkinson. Harry braced himself for more taunting from Parkinson, but she was surprisingly subdued today. She gave him a polite nod when they all met on the little hill, but otherwise directed her attention to Luna as Luna finished walking circles around the spot that would become the new home for the tree.

It was a nice location. If Harry were a tree, he would be happy there: overlooking the house and its gardens in one direction, the fields in another, the forest in another. The sun shone down. A wind moved through their group, stirring the little lacy white flowers.

Malfoy stood near Parkinson but a little off on his own. Like Parkinson, he nodded at Harry in greeting before turning his attention to Luna. He didn’t wear a hat today. His hair was soft around his face and shone in the sun. His sleeves were rolled up around his elbows, fingers tucked into his pockets, thumbs hooked through his belt loops. Harry’s heart did a funny thing every time he caught sight of the tattoo on his forearm.

Luna’s sweet voice carried on the breeze. Harry felt a little guilty. He had been singing with her until Malfoy and Parkinson arrived. She hadn’t seemed fazed when he asked if he could stand back and watch the rest, though he still felt bad.

Her song ended, and she and Ginny cast a spell to dig a hole into the ground. Then she led them down the hill to the sick tree. Despite her care, it looked even more poorly than it had when Harry had first seen it: its leaves a charred black, shriveled and curling. Harry had a flashback to Dumbledore’s withered hand, and he shivered despite the heat.

They stood in a loose circle around the tree. To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy stood directly to his right, and Parkinson took up a spot between Ginny and Luna. He tried not to be distracted by Malfoy as Luna gave them directions for softening the summer-hard soil and removing the roots of the tree, but he couldn’t help but track the movement of Malfoy lifting a hand to push back his windblown hair every so often from the corner of his eye.

“What was that charm again?” Harry muttered, stepping closer.

Malfoy didn’t comment on Harry’s lack of attention or his hopelessness with non-combat charms, only enunciated the incantation for him and then lifted his wand to sketch the movement in the air.

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Mm-hm.”

Across from them, Luna lifted her wand. “Ready?”

Luna had given him and Malfoy the easier job, Harry thought: to make the ground soft and wet enough that she, Ginny, and Parkinson could lift the tree and its roots. He lifted his hand when Malfoy did and said the incantation. It was surprisingly easy, casting together—maybe because of the time they’d spent working in the coffeehouse, maybe because of the time they’d spent…doing other things. Malfoy’s magic mingled with Harry’s. It wasn’t the blast that it had been when Malfoy rescued him from the fairies. It washed over Harry in waves.

The ground around the tree rippled and caved, then bubbled up as the tree lifted and the first of the roots appeared. Slowly, the trunk rose into the air as more and more of the roots came free. Above, in the branches, the curled, blackened leaves loosened and flew away in the wind, leaving it bare and exposing its symmetry: branching limbs above, branching roots below, connected by the straight trunk. With the leaves gone, it no longer looked sick. It looked naked and new.

They cast Levitation Charms together and moved up the hill with it, Malfoy keeping pace with Harry. The rest was relatively simple: they lowered the tree into the hole—Luna using magic to gather the roots to fit inside—and then filled the remaining space with soil.

“Is that it?” Harry said.

Luna beamed. “Yes. I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

“I— Yes. Yeah, it looks good.”

Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a soft snort from Malfoy.

“All right!” Ginny said. “Lunch, anyone?”

They marched back to the house, Parkinson falling in with Luna and Ginny. When they got back, Parkinson conjured a record player out onto the patio, and soon the air was filled with the sounds of strumming and a crisp woman’s voice. Ginny and Luna brought out sandwiches and sides and cloudy lemonade and a big bowl of salad. They talked about the neighbors and ice cream flavors and the most recent antics of the goats. Parkinson’s laugh had lost its taunting edge. Malfoy passed the platters of food to Harry and filled his glass with lemonade and asked him what he thought about the sandwich bread. (He liked it, of course—which was the correct response, from the way the corners of Malfoy’s eyes softened.)

Afterward, Harry collected the dishes and set a Cleaning Charm on them in the kitchen.

“Where’s Malfoy?” he asked when he returned to the patio.

“I think he went down to the forest,” Luna said.

From her place at the end of the table, Parkinson scrutinized Harry over the rim of her drink. Harry didn’t know what to make of it, so he ignored her.

“Thanks.”

His feet knew the way down to the forest. He passed the little creek into the cool humidity under the trees.

A whiff of carrion alerted Harry before he stepped into the little clearing where the Thestrals stood. Malfoy was there, facing them. Harry held his breath, not wanting to disturb the scene. The largest Thestrals’s ears twitched back. It blew air from its nostrils.

Malfoy turned. His gaze met Harry’s. The expression on his face remained blank. “Potter.”

“Hey,” Harry said, a little sheepishly. He stepped closer. The Thestrals turned their white eyes to him but appeared unconcerned. “They, er, seem to like you?”

Malfoy turned back to them. “We’re not the best of friends, but we have an understanding.”

“Huh.”

Harry came to stand next to Malfoy, not close enough to bump elbows, but close enough to reach out and touch him if he wanted. He tucked his hands into his back pockets.

He didn’t know what to say. A lot of things came to mind. He still hadn’t apologized for the Sectumsempra scars. He hadn’t thanked Malfoy properly for showing him how to make bread and coffee. Thoughts of sitting by the oceanside came to mind. Overlooking the frothing surf. Malfoy’s fingers tracing over his ribs.

Harry opened his mouth. Said, “I had a good time. Thank you.”

 _I was thinking of rescheduling my Portkey_ , he was going to add. The idea had been forming in his mind since—well, since Hermione had made the suggestion during her call. Though he had been seriously considering it since their trip to the coast, and it had solidified during lunch earlier.

But before he could say it, Malfoy responded, “I had a good time, too. I’m glad I could help you figure some things out.”

“Er…right.”

Harry felt the burn of embarrassment. He rocked on his heels.

One of the smaller Thestrals curved its neck to preen one leathery wing.

Malfoy glanced at him. “Was that all?”

“Uh…yeah. Just wanted to say thanks. Since I leave soon and didn’t know if I’d get the chance again.”

Malfoy’s mouth stretched flat, not quite a smile. “Any time.”

***

That night, Harry stood out on the balcony. He thought he would go for one last flight, but the coyotes started up their whistling howls. Harry hadn’t heard them since that first time, and he leaned against the banister to listen. The sound cut inside of him and stirred up a yearning.

He closed the balcony door, hesitated, and went downstairs. Ginny and Luna were in the living room watching a movie on the television.

“Hi there, Harry,” Luna said.

“Hey.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling silly.

“Want some company?” Ginny asked, pausing the film.

“Actually—yeah.”

They moved over on the sofa to make room for him, and Harry settled in next to Ginny. Their shoulders rested together companionably.

“The coyotes were howling again,” he said, though he didn’t know why.

Ginny bumped her shoulder against his. “Getting a proper goodbye.”

“I guess.”

“Want to watch something else?”

“No, this is fine.” He put his feet up.

“I’ll make popcorn,” Luna said.

She did, and they watched the rest of the film, and he was content.

Mostly.


	29. Chapter 29

Just as Ron had promised, the entire Weasley clan descended upon Grimmauld Place within a day of Harry’s return. Bill cleared the curses, Arthur calmed the enchanted furniture, and Molly attacked the kitchen and rooms with a volley of Cleaning Charms and ferocious intent.

Harry spent most of the next week with Bill, staying out of Molly’s way. He loved her; he also knew better than to stand accidentally between her and stained upholstery. It was no real ordeal. Bill was laid back—even when dismantling a generations-old Thief’s Curse—and he gave Harry a running narration of what he was doing, which evolved into casual teaching.

“I think you’d like Curse-Breaking,” Bill said to him one morning as they worked together to unravel the magic woven into a moth-eaten tapestry.

“Yeah, probably,” Harry said.

He did like Curse-Breaking when he was practicing it alongside Bill. They kept up an easy conversation, and any time Harry got stuck on a curse, Bill figured out the bit that was giving him trouble. But one afternoon, Bill went downstairs to get lunch, while Harry volunteered to keep working on the curse that had been giving them trouble all day. Not a particularly tricky curse—just time-consuming to pull apart. Alone in the attic, picking apart the little knots of magic, Harry quickly grew bored and exhausted and lonely.

“It’s so nice to have someone to work with,” Bill said with a smile when he returned, brushing crumbs from his shirt and resuming his spot on the floor next to Harry.

Harry had to agree.

Bill told him that he did a lot of his work alone in his office—old family heirlooms sent to him to un-curse—drinking copious amounts of tea to stay alert.

So Curse-Breaking was probably out for Harry.

“There you go,” Bill said, after they’d finished going through the last chest, breaking the curses on each of its little drawers. “Curse-free.”

Harry looked around the attic. It hadn’t fundamentally changed. Most of the old junk was there, only rearranged. They hadn’t actually needed to Vanish much of it. What was left was inert, benign, dusty, ancient. Useless to Harry. Would Andromeda want any of it?

Would Narcissa Malfoy?

“Wow,” he said. “Thanks.”

Bill laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “You don’t need to sound so thrilled.”

Downstairs, Arthur was enjoying a Firewhiskey with Ron over a game of chess while Molly swept the final cobwebs from the corners of the sitting room.

“Harry!” she said, cheeks flushed and hair wild, but smiling. “Bill! How are things going?”

“All done.”

Arthur looked up from the chess set. “All done?”

“Yep,” Harry said.

Ron was smiling at Harry in a told-you-so way.

Molly beamed. “Well, that’s cause for celebration! Arthur just finished, as well.”

“He almost didn’t, though,” Ron said, darkly. “That last armoire…”

Molly lowered her wand and attempted to smooth her hair back. “How about some ham sandwiches?”

“I—” He paused at a sudden pang in his chest. “I— Yeah. That’d be great. Can I help you?”

“No, no.” Molly gave him a kindly smile as she bustled past. “You relax here. I won’t be long.”

***

Three days later—after a flurry of re-carpeting and painting and varnishing—Grimmauld Place was done. Molly threw a small feast for all of them using the newly refurbished kitchen. Several bottles of Firewhiskey were passed around. Laughter and sunlight filled the dining room.

It was loads of fun, but it left Harry with a hell of a headache to nurse alone the following morning. He was relieved when Hermione and Ron came over in the evening for a quieter get-together. 

“How was your first day in the new house?” Ron asked.

“Slept through a lot of it,” Harry admitted.

Ron snickered.

“You spent a lot of energy working in the attic this last week,” Hermione said, casually, as she unloaded a platter of chicken. (“Mum cooked it,” Ron mouthed at Harry, in reassurance.) “Bill said you liked Curse-Breaking?”

“I mean, yeah. I enjoyed doing it alongside Bill, but I wouldn’t exactly want to do it full time.”

“Hm,” she hummed, as she dished food.

The kitchen still felt unfamiliar. The bones of it were recognizable—the shape hadn’t changed—but the space appeared more open and light.

They sat at the Transfigured table. Something occurred to Harry: “It’s odd to be eating inside.”

Hermione gave him a sharp look. “What?”

“No. I mean. Only that we ate all our meals on the patio. Ginny and Luna and me.”

“Oh, right,” she said.

The air in the kitchen was motionless and smelled vaguely of recently-Transfigured wood and their meal. It sounded like the clink of forks on porcelain and Ron chewing.

“It seems like you had a good time,” Hermione said.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Told you!” Ron said with a cheerful twirl of his fork.

Harry smiled ruefully. “You were right. I had fun.”

“And Grimmauld is done.”

“The renovations are done.”

Since he’d returned home, he’d been subjected to questions from the whole family about his trip. It seemed that almost everyone else had already been to Oregon, and they’d asked after Ginny and Luna and the farm. But this was the first time he was sitting down with Hermione and Ron alone to talk about his visit.

“It was nice of Luna to connect you with job shadowing opportunities,” Hermione said with a little smirk. “Did you enjoy any of them?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“I hear you were very good at selling hats.” Her smile was not so little anymore.

Harry shuddered, remembering the stench of burnt coffee and the din of mouthy hats. “No, thank you.”

“No?” Ron said. “No future in hat-selling for you, then?”

“No.” Harry swirled a piece of chicken around on the plate. “Actually, I was thinking of being a barista.”

“What? Harry! No!”

Ron frowned. “What’s a barrister? Those miserable bastards who work in the Muggle Wizengamot?”

“Not barrister, Ron. Barista. It’s a person who makes coffee. It’s a Muggle term, mostly.”

“Non-magical,” Harry corrected, automatically.

Hermione tilted her head at him.

Ron said, “You don’t mean those fancy coffee drinks, do you? But that’s brilliant. That means coffee for us.”

“Tsk. Ron. Harry, you’re not going to be a barista.” She said it in the same tone Molly used when telling George, _You’re not going to add Laughing Powder to the punch._

Ron, on the other hand, gave him a shrewd look.

“Did you know Draco Malfoy is living in Oregon?” Harry asked, suddenly.

Hermione glanced up from her food. Ron’s mouth froze, mid-chew. They looked at each other.

“Perhaps,” Hermione said, slowly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well… It wasn’t ever something that came up.”

“He’s friends with Luna and Ginny.”

“Yes…”

“He helps on their farm.”

“They’ve mentioned it.”

“Did you ever see him when you were visiting?”

“Maybe… Once or twice.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?”

Hermione blew out a breath. “Well, yeah. But he asked us not to tell you.” Her face was carefully neutral.

“He— What?”

“It’s nothing, Harry. It’s not like you would have wanted to make a social visit. We didn’t want you to worry.”

“I wouldn’t have worried,” Harry insisted, although that wasn’t true. “And I did make a social visit. A number of them, in fact. We got on pretty well.”

“Oh. Well. That’s nice.”

Ron was giving him that shrewd look again, frowning slightly in thought. “Does he still have that coffee shop?”

“Yeah. He does.”

“Good croissants.”

“Yeah.”

***

Harry stepped back and flipped the switch on the little coffee machine. There was a moment of pregnant silence, then the machine chortled. Harry grinned. Arthur was a _genius_.

A thin stream of hot coffee spat from the machine.

“Shit!” Harry said, and jammed the coffee pot in place. Then, he laughed at himself.

The aroma of coffee filled the kitchen, welcome and familiar. It was the first time Harry felt like he was _home_ since he’d returned.

Grimmauld still hadn’t lost that air of being new but old. The sitting room and the extra parlor rooms and the kitchen no longer actively tried to attack, expel, or eat him, but they didn’t feel like somewhere he _lived._ Molly had assured him that he would settle in, but that had been a week ago, after they’d just finished the renovations. He hadn’t said anything to Hermione about it because he knew her answer: _Give it time, Harry._

Harry watched the coffee pot fill, then he poured himself a cup and stepped into the back garden, the only place—besides his bedroom, which hadn’t changed much—that felt at all like home. The vines and bushes had been cut back severely during the Weasley clan’s occupation, though Arthur hadn’t come back yet to prune the trees, so the whole thing had a feeling of being simultaneously cultivated and feral.

The roses had done well, even having gone neglected for decades. At Harry’s direction, they were the only plants that had been spared the pruning charms, besides the trees. Their pink and red and spotted blooms grew all over. Harry wondered if they were magical. He’d be surprised if they weren’t. Maybe Ginny and Luna could bring a preserved cutting to the brewpub’s rose expert.

Besides the roses, the garden lacked much color. Maybe Molly could help him choose something to plant along the paths, now that you could see them. That would be nice.

Hermione-in-his-head was right, of course: it would just take more time to get comfortable with the changes.

Coffee cup in hand, he walked down one of the paths. As he went, he scanned the ground around the planters and pots. He wasn’t sure why. There was nothing there to see. The pots were empty and chipped; the borders along the pathway were covered with bare dirt. Only when he spotted a discarded glass globe decoration—and he felt a jolt of excitement—did he realize he was looking for eggs.

***

Harry sat in the empty sitting room. 

The thing about Grimmauld Place was that it was very quiet. Harry hadn’t really noticed before, maybe because he’d typically come home to sleep and bathe and—sometimes—eat. Now, spending days in it alone, he became aware of the void where sounds should be: the cackle of a crow, the clack of the bamboo wind chime, the brush of curtains in the breeze, the faint buzz of the fridge.

Earlier that evening, Harry had invited Ron and Hermione over. Since Hermione was busy, Ron came over himself. He brought a Chinese takeaway and a treacle tart from Molly. A sense of déjà vu gripped Harry.

“How _was_ Chinese food in Oregon?” Ron asked as they set out their meal.

“I can’t believe you never had Ginny bring you,” Harry said. “It was sort of similar. They didn’t have prawn toast, though.”

“No prawn toast!”

“And they didn’t serve chips.”

Ron—who’d just stuffed two chips into his mouth—froze, jaw hanging.

“I can see your food, mate.”

Ron chewed furiously and swallowed. “No _chips?_ ”

Harry shook his head gravely.

They had spent the rest of the evening talking about food: what they missed from their travels, what they missed from England when they were away. Ron continued to shoot covetous looks at the chips. He also gave Harry an update on the goings-on in the Auror department. It wasn’t quite so uncomfortable now for Harry to hear about cases he’d been on that were now closed and new cases he wasn’t familiar with. It seemed like it belonged to someone else’s life. As Ron recounted anecdotes about illegal potioneers that checked themselves into St Mungo’s with poisoning—and Portkeys that were transporting unsuspecting Muggles from charity shops to chateaus in the Loire Valley—Harry felt a vague wistfulness, but mostly he felt relief.

Then, Ron wanted to see the new coffee machine in action. Harry made three pots in total while Ron poked around the device and wondered how the water heated without magic and nearly scalded himself. Harry served their cups of coffee with a slice of treacle tart each.

There was something familiar about the combination of coffee and treacle tart. Harry frowned and considered it while Ron told him about a dragon smuggling case. He took another bite of tart, another sip of coffee. And realized that it tasted a lot like the brulee caramel coffee from Malfoy’s shop.

They cleared up the mess from dinner and then Ron ducked back through the Floo with leftovers for Hermione, leaving Harry in the silence once again.

This was one consequence of finishing work on the house: Harry had nothing left to do. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling, an itch under his skin that wouldn’t go away.

He caught himself rising to go to the Floo. He didn’t know why, though he had the vague impression of a sly smile, a mocking glance. The same sense had been haunting him since he’d returned, especially since renovations had been over. Even before then, though, even in the company of Ron and Bill and Hermione and Molly, he’d still had a vague feeling of something missing, of their company not being enough.

Perhaps he could have another slice of treacle tart with coffee.

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself.

There was actually one thing left that he hadn’t done yet. He went to one of the spare rooms they had finished early on in the repairs and knelt in front of a cabinet. Tapping his finger against the door, he muttered the unlocking spell.

Sirius’s chest of letters sat inside, where Harry had left it. He hesitated a moment before pulling it out.

Back in the sitting room, he set the chest on the table and smoothed a hand over its top. His mouth was dry. He lifted the lid.

The letters were all nestled inside, as if a month hadn’t passed. Harry ran a finger along them. Pulled one out at random.

_PF,_

_Hopefully this food will get you through a week or two. I’m sorry I couldn’t send more; perhaps you’ll be as surprised as I am that still nobody is willing to employ a werewolf who resigned his last job after nearly attacking a group of schoolchildren._

_Speaking of which: have you heard any more from Harry? I’m so pleased he’s writing to you; I feel awfully guilty that I got to know him so well last year. Isn’t he extraordinarily like Prongs? Though Prongs never was as responsible at that age. I suppose he didn’t have to deal with nearly as much as Harry has. I still can’t believe Dumbledore is letting him compete in the Tournament. No word on who entered him yet?_

_I understand why you prefer to stay in Hogsmeade at the moment, but home isn’t the same without you. Perhaps I’ll come and spend next weekend at the Shack, just like old times. Two weary canines under a full moon—what could be more romantic?_

_Let me know._

_Love,_

_M_

Harry had the feeling of being squeezed, of all the air pressing out of his lungs. He swallowed tightly. Lowered the page.

After a minute, he tucked the letter back into the chest. He closed the lid.

***

Andromeda was surprised to see him the next morning.

“Oh. Hello, Harry.”

“Hullo.”

“Come in. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Harry took a sheepish step inside. Andromeda’s gaze fell to the chest in Harry’s arms and then lifted again to his face, the serene mask of a good hostess. For the first time in a long while, Harry noted how much like Narcissa she looked. How she looked a little bit like Draco.

“Sorry to drop in. I won’t stay long. I just…found some things in Grimmauld while renovating. I was wondering if you’d like to come by some time, see if there’s anything you’d like. Bill took the curses off everything. It’s all sitting up in the attic.”

“That’s kind of you, Harry. Thank you. I might take you up on that.”

“And. Erm. I found these. I’m not. Uh. Not sure what you’ll think of them. They’re old letters between Remus and Sirius. But I thought—when he’s old enough—Teddy might want something of his dad’s.”

Andromeda gave him an inscrutable, searching look. Harry knew his face must be red. He realized how awkward this was, bringing this to Andromeda, to Teddy. What would Remus have thought? Sirius would have thought it was a right laugh.

But these letters were not meant for Harry. They weren’t meant to be lost to time, either. After long thought, Harry had decided that they belonged to Teddy for when he came of age. Let Teddy decide what he wanted to do with them. Harry only wished he had something of his parents.

Slowly, cautiously—as if sensing the importance of what lay inside the chest—Andromeda accepted it from him.

“Don’t—ah. I wouldn’t let Teddy read those till he’s out of Hogwarts.”

Andromeda gave him a sharp look. Searched his face. Nodded.

“Would you like to stay for tea?” she asked.

“Actually—no. Thank you. I have some things to finish back at the house.”

“All right. Well, thank you for this.”

Harry gave a smile and turned toward the door.

“Harry?”

He looked back.

“Be good to yourself.”

***

Of course, he had nothing left to finish at Grimmauld. He took one step down the entrance hall and already regretted not taking Andromeda up on the offer of tea. The feeling of being squeezed came over him again, but it was different this time: not the strangling clutch of grief but a deep, constant, crushing pressure—the weight of the floors above and the dense silence, of decades past, old memories, old curses. Of loneliness and screams and haggard expressions. Layer upon layer of them, invisible, a void.

Harry looked up at the ceiling. He felt small.

Small, and naked.

And he knew.


	30. Chapter 30

This time, Harry made three Portkey jumps altogether. London to Atlanta, Atlanta to Dallas, Dallas to—

“Welcome to Portland,” the smiling attendant said, before Harry had stood from his crouch on the terminal floor. He’d taken an Anti-Nausea Draught back in Atlanta, so his stomach wasn’t too bothered, but his legs had gone to jelly.

He stood before the attendant could do anything as embarrassing as offer him a hand up. He collected his bag. Gave her a shaky smile. Made his way across the terminal.

It had been an altogether rougher trip this time around. First, he’d got lost in the Atlanta airport. Then, the non-magical air conditioning had been out in Dallas, and cooling charms hadn’t done quite enough to cut the heat in the Portkey terminal. But as soon as he took his first breath of air here in the Portland airport, something inside of him relaxed.

He followed the smell of coffee to a small shop at the side of the terminal, where he ordered a medium-sized caffe mocha and tried not to stare at the tall barista as he made the drink. Fortified with caffeine and chocolate, he found his way to the Apparition point.

Part of him wished he’d given Ginny and Luna a heads up about his return to Portland. It would have been nice to let Ginny drive him back to the farm. At least the Apparition was over in the next moment, and he was standing on their gravel drive.

It was as if he’d never gone. He had the overwhelming sense that Malfoy was there, leaning against his car and waiting for him. But when Harry turned, the driveway was empty.

The house was just the way it had been when Harry left: doors and windows open, quiet—a gently-breathing stillness. Wind chimes made music in the afternoon. A scrub jay shrieked twice from a rock.

Glancing in through the window, Harry didn’t see Luna or Ginny, though he wasn’t surprised by that. He left his bag off the side of the path and walked around to the back of the house.

A chicken squawked across his path, and Harry jumped back. He didn’t recognize her before she disappeared into the herbs, but when he knelt, he discovered a tiny pink egg in the cat dish by the back door. It was still warm when he picked it up.

He followed the path through the garden and up the hill.

Luna’s hair was down today, save for two small plaits at her fringe, whose tails she’d tied together at her nape. The rest fell around her shoulders and back as she inspected the leaves of a tree at the crest of the hill.

She glanced up as he approached and broke into a smile. “Hi, Harry.”

“Hi, Luna,” he said, and bent so that she could kiss his cheek. Then he frowned at the tree. It felt familiar, like he should remember it.

Luna followed his gaze. “It’s looking a lot better, isn’t it?”

“Wait. This isn’t— Is it?”

He lifted a hand to rub one of the small, bright green leaves between his fingers. They looked like spring leaves, and they covered the tree, almost glowing in the late summer sun.

“It’s doing much better here,” Luna said. She threaded her fingers with his. “It’s so good to see you. You look awful.”

“Uh. Thanks. Yeah. Long trip.”

“You poor thing. Would you like some iced tea?”

“That would be— Nice, actually. But. You seem unsurprised to see me.” The weird feeling like no time had passed tickled over his scalp.

“Should I be?”

“No, I guess. Merlin. I can’t believe this is the same tree. Did you…help it? With magic?”

“Mm. Only a little, to help the roots settle in. It did the rest on its own.”

“Wow,” he breathed.

A breeze streamed over the hill, catching in Luna’s hair, making the tender new leaves whisper.

“Sorry I didn’t warn you I’d be coming. I thought—” He thought the possibility of returning would shatter if he handled it too much, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit that, even to Luna. “I thought I might ask if I could stay? Just for a little while. Just, ah, until I find my own place.”

Luna’s smile widened. “Of course.” She squeezed his fingers. “The room is still made up for you.”

For a moment, Harry couldn’t speak. He looked up at the fluttering leaves of the tree until the tightness in his throat had passed. He swallowed. “Thanks.”

Luna patted his hand. “Would you like me to take you up?”

“No. I still know where it is. Don’t let me take you away from your work.”

“I was just spending some time talking to the tree. But I think I’ll go check on the Thunderbird. I saw some unexpected lightning earlier. She might want to give us some rain.”

“Oh. That’s nice?”

“Yes! It’s been a dry summer. Would you like to help Ginny and me levitate her a little later? We do that sometimes. So she can feel like she’s flying. She’ll water the fields for us. But maybe you’d like a nap first.”

“Yeah. That sounds brilliant. I mean, helping with the Levitation Charm. I’m a bit too keyed-up for a nap.”

Luna perked up at that. “I’ll make you some sleep tea later.”

Harry was fairly sure that was the tea that smelled like old socks. “That’s— I think I’ll be fine later, but thank you.”

He made his way back to the house, picked up his bag, and went in through the back door. On his way to the stairs, he stopped in the kitchen. The fridge hummed. The bamboo wind chime clacked outside the window.

Inside the fridge, there was a half-filled carton of eggs. Harry pulled the little pink egg from his shirt pocket, rubbed it clean with his thumb, and tucked it inside the carton. Then, he went upstairs.

There was still a slight gap between the coats in the cupboard, where he usually pushed between them. Inside the room, the clock he’d moved to the chest of drawers was still where he’d put it.

He set his bag on the bed. Hermione had helped him pack it. There weren’t a lot of things he’d brought with him—most of his material possessions had belonged to Grimmauld, so he’d left them—but he had enough that she’d set up an elaborate Undetectable Extension Charm on his luggage to contain it.

“You could literally live out of your bag,” Hermione had told him, smugly. “I’ve set up plumbing. Well. Charms to mimic it.”

“Er—thanks.”

For now, Harry was happy to live in this room in Ginny and Luna’s house, where he could step out onto the balcony and go for a fly. He opened the bag and Summoned another from inside of it. It smacked against something else in the recesses of the extended space and then whooshed into view. Harry caught it. In this one, he’d packed just the essentials: shirts, trousers, pants, socks. He unshrank all of the things and placed them in the drawers and on the shelves. When he was done, he sat in the armchair by the iron stove and imagined the warmth it would give off in the winter.

Harry went into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. He had it with a glass of the iced tea. The nervousness he’d felt on his trip here had relaxed, but there was a new tension in him, a feeling like teeth gritting, like a spell waiting to go off but trapped.

A walk around the farm in the sun helped. ( _Come and explore,_ the forest said. _I will_ , Harry thought back at it. _Soon_.) By the time he found Luna again near the Erumpent’s field, the feeling of anxious anticipation had eased. But it settled over him again as soon as she looked up.

“Hi Harry. Have you got settled?”

“Yeah, thanks. I made myself some lunch. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. The kitchen is there to be used. I thought I’d come check to see if any more animals got trapped between the wards, but I haven’t found any.”

“Oh, good. But, you know, I’m happy to help you stage another rescue any time.” The memory inexplicably reminded him of Malfoy, and his apprehension mounted. Harry hadn’t planned to bring this up with Luna or Ginny yet—he’d decided that he belonged here, independent of whatever Malfoy thought of him—but he had to know. “Luna… When I was talking with Ron and Hermione about my trip, they said something, and I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”

“I might, but I’d have a better idea if I knew what ‘something’ they said.”

Harry dug the toe of his trainer into the carpet of leaves and pine needles. “Right. They told me Malfoy asked them not to tell me about him being in Oregon. I reckoned he asked you the same thing? Malfoy didn’t want me to know where he was.”

“Well, yes,” Luna said, as if it was an obvious fact.

Harry could only stare at her.

She tilted her head. “Are you surprised?”

“I—” He blinked away the vivid memory of Malfoy gazing at him from his place in bed, eyes guarded as Harry grasped his forearm.

“You _seem_ surprised.” She stepped forward to take Harry’s hand, and—like earlier—threaded her fingers between his. He looked down at their hands.

“I shouldn’t be.” He couldn’t keep the taste of bitterness from his tone. “Just. I thought we were getting along pretty well—really well for someone who didn’t ever want to see me. Not that I ever wanted to see him again.” Not until Harry had met him again, had got to know him.

“Harry,” Luna said, kindly.

“Mm?”

“You know Draco. He’s a very proud person. He doesn’t usually show it, but he carries a lot of grief and regret with him. He wanted to start again quietly. He didn’t want conflict.”

“Oh,” Harry said, with a sinking feeling.

“Especially from you because he really likes you.”

“What?”

“He’s liked you for a very long time. Didn’t you know?”

Harry blinked at her. She smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“And you like him, too. It’s okay. Ginny and I already knew.”

A twig snapped behind them. Harry turned. Ginny stood there. She raised her eyebrows and looked past him to Luna. “Didn’t take him too long, did it?”

“Only about half a month,” Luna agreed.

Ginny strolled closer to clap Harry on the shoulder. “Glad to have you back.”

“Er…”

“Shall we levitate the Thunderbird?” Luna asked. “Come on, Harry. You’ll love this. She’s so beautiful when she flies.”

***

Harry Apparated to the alley Ginny had taken him to on his first visit to Portland. He walked past all of the coffeehouses and bookshops and the pet shop with the rhinestone collars in its window. He didn’t stop at any of them, but he did walk slowly enough to take in the ambience (and not at all because he was nervous).

Portland, Oregon _did_ have a lot of coffee shops. But he kind of liked that. He would never run out of options for caffeine, that was for sure.

He crossed the train tracks into the more industrial-looking neighborhood with its equipment supply and repair shops. His stomach tightened. He stopped at a corner to read a metal plaque on a building’s wall, something about it being a historical landmark. (The idea of a 20th century building being historical still baffled him.)

The words blurred; Harry wasn’t really paying attention to them. He knew he was stalling.

He walked on, till he came to a stop again, and his heart gave a pang.

 _Knead_ , read the golden words on the window. _Tea. Coffee. Baked goods._ And below them was Malfoy.

Harry stood across the street and watched him mix dough. The hands that had become familiar to him. The white-blond hair that fell over his features. Though Harry couldn’t see it, he knew there would be a little crease of concentration between Malfoy’s eyebrows. Harry licked his dry lips.

In his pocket, his hand closed around one of the little agates Malfoy had given him on the hidden beach. He’d found it earlier in the bathroom of the guest bedroom—his bedroom—where he must have left it on the edge of the sink. The feel of the smooth stone came with the memory of Malfoy pressing it into his palm.

“ _This_ is an agate, you prat,” he’d said.

“We’re both prats,” Harry whispered now.

As if he could hear the words, Malfoy paused in his work. He looked up. Met Harry’s gaze across the street.

And broke into a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was part of HD Erised 2020; thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥


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